The chef

A cup of this
A dash of that.
My grandfather smiling at me.

Sitting in the counter.
My feet dangling from the sides.
He hands me the bowl.
I stir it and get some on my shirt .

He laughed as he takes it from me.
I help him make the cookies on the pan.
He chuckles as I lick the beater.

I take the other to my grandmother.
She loved to eat the dough.

As he put the cookies in the stove.
I was to young to use.
I knew only he could touch.

He cleaned up as I did too.
He called me kara mess.
The future chef.

I look at that counter now I am tall enough to see well over it.
I am to old to sit on it.
I still cook simple stuff.

My grandfather older still smiles at me.
I am still his kara mess.
His little chef .

I smile at the counter.
For that's where I was raised.
From a little girl.
To a young woman.
Yet no matter how much I grow.
My family calls me kara mess.
Grandpa's little chef.