Pumpkin Fritters

Though once so poor in the South Africa

That even a maid was beyond our means,

Just for a bit, we could afford (it seems)

Sainted Emma of the pumpkin fritters

Issuing out of the cast-iron pan

As quick as we young greedy guts could eat;

Her baby cooing in an orange crate.

Stashed down there by our unshod feet.

Cinnamon sugar handy to anoint,

Her frittered art beat out a Michelin Three Star joint.

When Emma presently came no more,

We boys knew that we were really poor.

In the upshot, though I learned to cook,

Pumpkin fritters still excel a recipe book.

Wednesday, September 3, 2025