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?)