Earth of India, dash of some rare,
imagined East, its fine dust
whirls like dervishes or sandstorms
in her pale Norwegian batter.
Stir with a wooden spoon,
my grandmother tells me,
wrist angled as it meets
the sudden dark intrusion.
Thicken with flour and cream
that shade, subtle as night falls,
into dusk. Roll the dough
on the cutting board;
carve them in diamonds,
edges of each fattigmann
scalloped like seashells,
as waves skirt the shore.
Drop them in boiling oil
until they’re brown and crisp;
lay them out quickly
on paper towels: babes
in the manger, naked,
innocently sweet but also
sharp, their fragrance
troubling the air.
I’m restless beside her, circling
in time to her vigorous
rhythm, round and round
with a fierce contention
that makes me want to put
my hand on the pulse
of the world, to feel its heart
beating in swift strokes,
its pungency a balm,
a ripe pod.
