Read the poems
These three poems tell about a rainy day of making soft pretzels with Pop. Each stanza is numbered.
Rainy Saturday Dough
1Rain taps on the kitchen window
like a drummer who forgot the song.
The backyard is too wet for soccer,
so Pop ties on his flour-dusted apron
and says, "Today, we make pretzels."
2He scoops flour into a big bowl.
The flour is a snowy hill,
and Pop presses a hollow in the top.
In goes warm water with yeast,
a little lake on a mountain.
3I push and fold and push again.
At first, the dough is as sticky as glue,
and it hangs on to my fingers.
Then it turns smooth and soft,
a sleepy cat curled up in the bowl.
Pop covers it with a dish towel.
"Let it rest," he whispers, "and grow."
Loop, Cross, Twist, Press
1An hour later, Pop lifts the towel.
The dough has puffed up
like a pillow someone just fluffed.
We cut it into pieces
and roll each one into a long rope,
skinny snakes stretched across the counter.
2Pop's hands move fast:
loop, cross, twist, press.
His pretzels are perfect bows on a birthday present.
I loop and cross and twist,
but mine looks like a scribble
my baby cousin drew with a crayon.
3I frown at my lumpy knot.
"Every shape tastes the same," Pop says,
and he gives me a wink.
His wink is a gold star on my paper.
I make eleven more.
Behind the Oven Window
1Pop lowers each pretzel
into a pot of hot water and baking soda,
counts to thirty,
and lifts it out with a slotted spoon.
Salt falls from my fingers
like a tiny snowstorm.
2The oven is a dragon's cave,
glowing orange and breathing heat
each time we open the door.
Through the little window, we watch
our pale pretzels turn a deep, shiny brown.
3Outside, the rain keeps drumming,
but the kitchen is a warm blanket
wrapped around Pop and me.
We blow on our pretzels and take a bite,
and Pop's laugh is thunder
that never scares anyone.