My grandmother baked
the way other people self-medicate,
love, see therapists, pray.

Honest flour was her philosophy;
food for thought, dished-out dogmas
in pastry and dough.

Lemon zest, she'd say,
to make it rain; or a cake
cooling outside on the sill -

(we were told
never break eggs on Halloween,
as their shells make witches' boats.)

Add cloves to your wine
and salt to your stew, she'd say
for a baby girl,

and brown bread,
baked house-brick hard
makes for a peaceful home.

And I'd stand in the kitchen door
slouched on one hip, my hem down -
breathing in the flavoured steam,

listening; and she'd say
we'll bake an honest woman
of you yet, some day.