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Of course it was and wasn’t that—
It lived, was bounded, in that was-
And-wasn’tness. Saturdays,
Pork fat melting in an iron pan,
The restlessness of doves outside
The open kitchen window. A place
Too small to be The South, too vast
Not to be a nation in itself:
Gobbler’s Knob. That salt-smoked,
Meticulously tidy kitchen where
A dark-cropped, loving, unyielding woman
Dripped each crackling batter-gobbet
Into its mirror of hot grease. Where
The edges of the real crisped, deepened brown,
Were served, and a warm breath rose from them.
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Love you - love your words :)
Hard to believe the Knob is no longer in the family.