A few minutes
Before dinner starts
The oven dings
Grandma swivels around
From where she’s positioning
Rolls on a plate
The oven door creaks as it opens
The aluminum foil crinkles
As Grandma tugs the pan out
It’s well worn
Scratched, with marks
That just won’t come out
The amazing smell of fried potato
Wafts into the kitchen
Rows and rows of tater tots
Perch on the foil
Which glistens with grease
The tots are all crisp and
Browned to perfection
Each one just like the other
Each pair with the same
Expanse dividing them
Grandma has placed them all
Impeccably
In as much control of this situation
As she is of every other one
The tepid air from the oven filters
Into the room
Warming up a house that is kept
At precisely 76 degrees in the winter
The blue bowl with the split down the middle
Is pulled from the cabinet
Grandma brandishes her spatula
And scoops up the rows
Never letting the spatula overflow
The bowl is handed off to my aunt
She plants it in the left side
Of the aging oak table
With plates and utensils
All neatly lined up
Grandma’s chair scratches the floor
And ours follow without delay