My dad tells this story
about visiting his grandma
Bertha
on the family farm
when he was seven or eight
and she asked him
what he wanted for breakfast
and he blurted "chocolate cake"
and the next morning there it was
from scratch
and oh how he feasted.
Grandma Bertha made it for him
on every subsequent visit
through adolescence into adulthood
until she went into the home,
he always ate it
not out of desire
as it quickly became a chore
but duty.
I always wondered
was it good hearted grandmotherly-spoiling
holding on to the youth of her grandson
as he aged-out of cake-for-breakfast
or
was it a years long lesson
about thinking before you speak
and reaping what you sow.
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