Blocks of butter stacked on a store shelf. Makes me wonder who the hell invented this thing, this byproduct of cow’s milk. Cream and salt churned at high speeds to create something creamy and cold and simple delicious. Arguably a global staple in all cooking. It is smooth and artisan. To be combined with all different kinds of other toast toppings. White/yellow. Fat to be melted and attached to all sorts of food. My mind dances over censored Food Network chefs and the scything of strict adherence to a diet. Because damn it all we’re only young once. And we must enjoy this life, otherwise why try? What’s the point? I think of Parisian croissants, Garlic Knots, and other carby delights like movie theatre popcorn.

In kindergarten, we had a woman come in dressed in colonial clothing and she taught us how to churn butter. It was a huge wooden butter churn and we all got a turn churning it. Once ready, we were all give a taste on slices of bread. I never think about this memory often. Of being small in and being in school. Time machine memories existing nowhere else but in our own minds. It was in the basement of Lacodaire. I remember the bluish carpeted steps flanked by two colorful murals on the right and left walls. The floor was split between kindergarten and pre-k. I remember the desks facing the chalkboard and the easels to the left. Teacher’s desk to the right. Fluorescent lighting and not a lot of natural light. There might’ve been some small windows facing the playground. I remember the darkness often. I learned how to tie my shoes and button my coat and zip up my zipper. I remember the Chicago Bulls were big that year. I remember talk about them playing the Utah Jazz and not knowing a damn thing about basketball. And all the other kids seeming to know a lot about basketball. I also recall antiquated computer games in green graphics. And the one bathroom that had a toilet and a urinal. There must’ve also been cubbies somewhere. I remember learning about Hanukkah and Kwanzaa and someone’s father coming in to make us all latkes. I remember Mrs. Cross. I remember making “gak” or slime. With Elmer’s Glue and some other ingredients I do not recall. But we stored it in a Folger’s coffee can stripped of it’s label. Knee-highs and –

Author: Roe

she/her. Songwriter & Trek Punk Soul™.

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