When Mother Fries Her Buckwheat Cakes

Our home is very small and plain,

     We have no steam or gas;

We have no nickel-plated range

     On which to cook, alas!

Our food is plain as plain can be,

     We have no stomach aches,

Unless perhaps it’s when we eat

     A meal of buckwheat cakes.

When winter spreads across the hills,

     With everything froze tight,

Then mother gets her buckwheat out

     And stirs it up at night.

She lets it stand behind the stove

     Till early morning breaks,

And then she greases up the pan

     To fry her buckwheat cakes.

Well, talk about a banquet fair,

     With all its filigree,

It can’t compare with mother’s cakes

     For dad, nor John nor me.

We eat and eat while mother fries,

     A score or more it takes

To half way ease our appetites,

     Of mother’s buckwheat cakes.

I love to see her standing there

     Like one born to command,

The old black spider smoking hot,

     With knife and fork in hand.

What care we if our youthful flesh

     In coarse goose-pimples breaks,

We’re healthy, happy and content

     On mother’s buckwheat cakes.

Feb. 12, 1902