Ok, not everything
just the butterscotch pecan rolls
that I make once a year
but dream of more often
that when perfect
and they have been perfect
drip and glisten and ever so slightly saturate
with butter-beautiful sugar-sticky goo
But this year I learned
that if you brown the butter before baking
you black the butter while baking
and you end up with pinwheel-embossed pucks
bonded in a rectangular mass of caramel-y tenacity
although golden brown
and arguably edible
on the lower side
They were not what I wanted to give
but they were what I had
and my family ate them anyway
avoiding the parts
threatening to dental work
My brother reassured me
that he loved me anyway
which I knew
and appreciated
but still wanted to eat
and give
perfect butterscotch pecan rolls
We also burned the potatoes
that were to have accompanied
the disaster rolls
and egg bake
and salad for adults
(but jello Christmas trees for kids)
We didn’t know about the potato burning
it actually hadn’t happened yet
til turning on the oven to cook dinner
after my brother left
with kids full of jello and presents and playtime
We didn’t find the potatoes til mom and me
were packing my grandma’s old cooler
with tangerines for me to take home
Grandma would be glad no one was leaving
without a tasteable memento
of having been gathered
This Christmas
was quiet and warm and gentle and simply a place to land
however briefly
to remember where we are held
unquestionably held
burned butterscotch pecan rolls be damned
Packing tangerines, we smelled something
wafting between appealing and dangerous
and remembered the potatoes
They emerged in a sunburst of tuber dice
charred to inedibility on the borders
slow-roasted to sweet, salt-kissed tenderness
in the middle
They were beautiful
and delicious
as we stood at the stove
eating Christmas dinner
exactly as it appeared to us
Don't call me a butterfly, or maybe do 