Fried Green Tomatoes

Dressed in familiar blue robe, 
slide-on slippers beneath,
my father fried them--
those yummy green slices
dipped in egg yolk and cornmeal,
then eased into his sizzling cast iron pan.

I watched from our kitchen table
each winter visit back home.
(He never trusted me not to undercook 
or burn)

Sometimes a laugh or song
on tv drifted from the next room.
Mother was never a devote
of our late night tomato pig-outs.

We ate as fast as he cooked them
until, bellies filled, we collapsed in the den,
house warm and locked against
the storm moaning outside.

I was a child again
for that little while.
Safe from that angry storm.
Safe from far larger storms, too.




Pris Campbell
©2010


Published in The Dead Mule  June 2011

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