I took this picture of one of Babcia's baking pans when she moved into her present senior's place.
She won't be baking anymore.
She used to take such pride in baking her buns.
If this pan could talk.
In this picture if you squint really hard, you can almost see dough that's buttered, rising in the pan and smell yeast.
See it was rising.
Old tarnished bake pans sit on the floor
Hot buns will come from these no more
Babcia’s homemade buns were her pride
Golden crusted, fluffy, with butter on the side
Robin Hood flour gently baked, lovingly with lard
Having fresh buns on the table was hard
She fired up a wood stove in the early days
And blended into the dough her country ways
She kneaded and punched till we were fed
Those were the days when bread was bread.
Our satisfied stomachs did not give her joy
It was the “finished bun” that made her say “Yoy”
Aroma filled her tiny kitchen space as she baked
And the hard work she did never left a trace
When she brought us care packages to eat
Her homemade buns were always a treat
Garlic Sausage and dills and a couple of buns
Add a nice cold beer and we were done
Making chleb out of her old tarnished pans
Were a gift we remember from Babcia’s hands
Grammas are supposed to bake cookies and cake
But it’s Babcia’s kids who will miss what she baked.