Weathered hands kneading flour and water,
Love and tears, elements of life.
Dexterous hands rolling out sheets thin as wafers.
Onions weeping under the scrape of her knife,
Salt and pepper sprinkled on minced meat.
"Make a T," her purposeful hands instruct,
"And fold the dough over the filling tight as a tamale."
Feathery touch brushing olive oil over pasty layers,
Then into the oven goes the hand made offering.
Later, clad in potholders, grateful hands pull out the crisp tarts
Smelling of Mother Earth, tentacles from the Middle East.
After the first bite, tasty rivulets run
From ancestors to great-grandchildren.
Lebanese Meat Pies for the young, old, her children and mine,
No child of Mummum's will ever go love-hungry!