Let’s look at food, the hours I’ve spent

Making tummies more content.

My feet now flat from standing scraping

Carrots, and the such, for shaping

Little bodies into fatter

Well-conditioned human matter.

I wrack my brain, now what for tea

That I can churn out yummily.

The pros and cons are carefully weighted,

Something tasty then created

(But nothing made seems to eclipse

Their strong penchant for “steak and chips.”)

When time for bed, I take delight

In reading cook books half the night.

It’s odd to think a hot-plate slaver

Hits the cot and wants to savour

Recipes that others state

Are nicer than the things we ate.

All those clippings, when a bride,

I stored but have not ever tried.

Exotic ones so carefully hoarded

Till making them could be afforded.

(But would they eat if I did bake

A tasty Turkish Pickle Cake?)


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