Each night at six we’d gather for a meal
Around the round kitchen table, and dad
Always said “If we’re lucky, we’ll have pie
For dessert.” After we prayed, giving thanks, mom
Would start to dish the meatloaf and we’d eye
The hot dinner rolls as they came our way.
Even with eight mouths to feed, mom had a way
Of doing things so that every meal
Seemed like a feast. She really had an eye
For making food that would satisfy dad.
And when she had enough time to bake, mom
Would surprise us with a warm, yummy pie.
We really didn’t care what kind of pie
She made–they were all good. It was the way
The crust came out so flaky, a trick mom
Learned from grandma at a young age. No meal
Was ever complete until I saw dad
Wipe his mouth and dab a tear from his eye.
Now, there was nothing that could tear up his eye
Quicker than a slice of lemon meringue pie
Made from scratch! It was always so tart that dad
Would pucker his lips and smack them this way
And that; then lean back content. We knew the meal
Was done when he leaned over and kissed mom ?
On the cheek! There were those times when mom
Would make a cake for dessert, but we’d eye
It skeptically and wonder how the meal
Would ever measure up without some pie.
We learned over the years there was no way
That a piece of cake would ever satisfy dad.
Sundays were the best meal of the week! Dad
Always made sure we were there to help mom
So everything could be done just her way!
Wed enjoy ‘tender meat sliced from the eye
Of round roast and a cool slice of lemon pie
For dessert. We would finish up the meal
And then dad, with a twinkle in his eye
Would smile at mom and say; “A triangle of pie
Is the best way to round out a square meal!”