I look up to the smiling, queenly face.

A patron saint of the kitchen.

She slips on slender oven mitts,

"Junior", she says.

"Are you ready for a cookie?"

I nod eagerly,

Ready for my baked confection.

She slips open the oven,

Reaches in for the fruits of her labor.

With a swift motion,

I plant a shoe to the small of her back.

Granny tumbles into the oven,

Face slamming into the burning steel

Of the oven floor,

I giggle innocently over tortured screams.

Pushing her in farther still.

I slam the oven door shut.

An after-dinner treat,

Of Grandma and granola.