As a child I begged
for buttermilk,
the creamy texture
promising to be
vanilla milkshake.
My father enjoyed it so,
a chaser for his liverwurst on rye,
brown mustard and raw onions.
So much of his joy
requiring grown-up taste.
My mother gave me peanut butter
on squishy white bread,
mini mountains of sugar-boiled fruit
dotting the middle of my sandwich.
Preacher-like,
she rationed potato chips,
insisted on whole milk
to wash them down.
Later, I'd sneak to the fridge
with my jam glass,
Tom and Jerry cheering me on,
spend all I dared
with mystical confidence
to taste the forbidden sample.
Tears welling in my eyes,
I spat sour milk and
disappointment
into the sink,
mother's eyebrows
sympathetically raised
behind the open fridge door.
"Buttermilk! Blah!"


© by Gretchen Friel.
Used with the author's permission.