Parched Peanuts

The memory of peanuts spawns a smell

that emanated from my grandpa's barn--

those dried and dusty weeds had hung from nails

since Grandpa sent us out to harvest them.

Like fresh-cut wood, they had to cure and age

till dry and ready for the fire. We shucked

the earthy goobers--really roots--from stalks

of mother plants who'd done their job: produced

their offspring; suited now for compost, or

for burning.

                     Laid in sieves of screen, the nuts

were shaken till all flecks of musky dust

fell through. We took the first clean pan of them

inside for Grandma's cookie sheet. The stove

was hot. She set the oven gauge to warm;

alarm for thirty minutes. When she popped

them out, she used a pancake turner, flipped

the cooking nuts.

                             "Another half-an-hour,"

 she said, "and they'll be done." They disappeared

again in oven's darkness. We stayed close

to kitchen door, inhaling fragrances

that--unbeknownst to us back then--would stay

with us forever.

                            So they did; our kids,

now grown, insist on bowls of peanuts parched

in Mama's modern oven. Nothing beats,

they say, the smell, the click of shell, the taste

unique that conjures sweetest memories.

c 2012 by Pat Laster dba lovepat press