Smooth Argentine hands, old Czech recipe, a Spanish summer song, meld inside an English mission cabin of polished wood, above a river swelled with mountain rain, all for a Slavic son so young to savor, a last time; the flavor of innocence.
Sparkling eyes twinkle above the slight mash of cottage cheese.
Elegant lips sing as eggs mix with milk, sugar and the juice of lemon’s sour.
Love’s light laugh drops raisins in one – by – one adding the sweetness of heart.
A fresh pie shell waits to be filled with ingredients never to be tasted the same
A simple memory bakes at 375 degrees for forty minutes until a knife can return clean.
In French quarters of re-birthed lofts above a river with no flavor it’s simply a cottage cheese pie;
simply a cottage cheese pie,
I bake every July.