Chicken Fridays
Barbara A. Fritz


 Friday nights were chicken
Saturdays at Bubbie’s
And that’s the way it was.
Rain, sleet or snow
Friday nights were chicken,
Saturdays at Bubbie’s
I remember watching my mom,
Scarf on head, or dishtowel, or napkin,
Lighting the candles.
She closed her eyes, and waved her working hands
Over the flames.
She prayed for a good week,
Health for all,
And patience
For taking care of me!
Once the blessing of Shabbat filled the house,
Came the dinner,
First the soup,
Then the potatoes,
And then,
And so our ritual began.
After the dishes
We set up the table
For tea like fine ladies
With refined conversations.
We shared our hopes
And dreams for times yet to come.
I tried to talk past my bedtime, but Mom knew my tricks.
A wave of her wand (my baton in disguise),
"Good night, my Princess."
"Good night."
"Sweet dreams ‘til morning"
"Uh, huh,"
Saturday mornings to Bubbie’s we’d go.
Listening to conversations
Spoken in a language not so foreign anymore.
I could read to heart’s delight until....
The cousins arrived and picked the first fight.
We had our lunch, leftover chicken of course,
Then off to the movies
The eldest leading the way,
Pushing and shoving
Laughing and running away.
Three hours later, tired and full of popcorn, candy, and tonic,
We trudged on back to Bubbie’s house,
Where it was time to leave.
The hugging and kissing, we passed in a line,
Eldest to youngest, making sure no one was missed.
Forty minutes later we were on our way back home
For Saturday night fare -- hot dogs and beans!
Published in The Longfellow Journal, Volume XII
© Barbara A. Fritz
All rights reserved. No part of this work may be copied or used in any way without written permission from the author.

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