Anne is Real Butter
Back in the fabulous fifties and swinging sixties, Canadians were all but commanded to cast aside their beloved butter in favour of margarine – this so-called “modern marvel” that promised thrift, health, and, if you squinted hard enough, a resemblance to butter. But in its original form, margarine looked as appetizing as cold porridge: pale, waxy, and about as inviting as a Winnipeg February. Enter the legendary margarine colouring ritual, a homegrown spectacle that transformed kitchens into something between a chemistry lab and an art class.
My parents, ever the budget-conscious pioneers, would gather the family around for The Pouring of the Yellow. The margarine would be dumped into a bowl, and then – like scientists at the dawn of a yellow revolution – someone would pierce a tiny packet of colouring. With the drama of a magician unveiling a trick, they’d squirt the bright yellow liquid onto the pallid mass. Then came the mixing: spoons, spatulas, and sometimes bare hands would whirl and mash until the margarine took on a hue somewhere between sunshine and jaundice. If you were unlucky, you’d end up with a bowl that looked more like radioactive playdough than anything you’d want to put on toast. Still, there was pride in that homemade margarine: it was thrifty, it was modern, and above all, it was yellow, sort of. And for those who missed butter, well, they could always close their eyes and dream.
And as kids growing up in Georgetown and London Ontario, we did dream of “real butter,” a special tasty treat we rarely got to eat.
Anne is Real Butter: A Free Verse Tribute to My Beloved with Brain Cancer
They tried to sell us margarine –
pale, plastic, defiant on toast –
but childhood knew better,
the gold pat melting, making everything sing.
Anne, you are that pat:
authentic, delicious, never pretending.
Where bland spreads wilt beside the heat,
you sizzle, rich and unmistakable.
Not whipped or watered down,
but stout-hearted and creamy,
the kind that sticks to the roof of memory,
and makes even plain potatoes a feast.
You’re the taste that lingers:
nutritious, bold, a treat, not a substitute.
When the world offers imitation,
you remain the real deal,
proof that good taste and staying power
are spread thick in the ones we love.
If you feel like keeping track of Anne’s cancer journey, I’m chronicling it here:
https://robertmcbrydeauthor.com/news/
Your friend,
Robert
https://robertmcbrydeauthor.com/
