Aunties on both sides of my family went on a hunt for chitterlings last year, and used a lot of time and gas trying to find them. We swear that scrap meat recipes keep us attached to the ancestors. I enjoy special holiday dishes, but I'm salty. There's more to generational remembering than chittlins...
Chitlins simmer in pots of old
An heirloom passed, a story told
On holidays and family feasts
They bring past to life, to say the least
We savoring each bite with glee,
Cherish the past and legacy
The lingered flavors of our roots
Please fix a dish that don't dilute
For chitlins are more than just a meal
They're a connection, our love to feel
How long will we hold these threads,
To our mothers' kitchens and their homesteads,
The lengths we'll go to find the things
To make these blessed chitterlings
Can we let go of what has been
To forge a path that is yet unseen
The chittlin train had missed our town
We can't accept that going down
Organ meat was shorting out
My family found a different route
Traveling up and down the coast
Gas and miles to grab the ghost
Money transfers, telephone
Whoever found them first was on
One pot dank, one pot is straight
A little funky, "I already ate"
Need good hot sauce to mask the dirt
cause shit bacteria never hurt
From scrappin meat, we make delight
The taste of memories, so warm and bright
Swinging back from old and new
Its past pulls through a novel view
Let's try this hard for funds to mint
Over tasted buds endowment
If chittlins bind us to our kin
We strengthen ties with love within
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