everyone has them
their ***** underwear,
their skeletons in
the closet...
      i too have mine,
well, one in particular...
and it goes like this:

- somerset (not cornish)
           camembert cheese
- a dash of cinnamon
- honey
- butter
- on toasted tandoor
           baked naan bread...

   come on! it's cheese!
it's not exactly a comparison between
a ferrari and a porsche!
it's cheese! cheese!

i don't even know whether to call
it a dessert or a starter...

why am i being pedantic
           about the cheese?
cornish camembert is harder
than its somerset cousin...
   and naan bread?
  you really expect me to like
the putrid dough of an english slice
of toast?!           *******!
they just discovered sour-dough...
i'm not toasting this load of
    pigeon droppings, moulded
into something resembling
a decent slice of chew...

how many times do i have to say this,
i would not eat in a restaurant
where the chef smoked marijuana...
   as i wouldn't trust a skinny chef...
you need palette numbing additives
to explore,
   alcohol for the carousel lottery
of ingredients...
   and a charred tongue from smoking
cigarettes...
   i'm trying to figure out
how french toast came about though...
the recipe was passed down
to me from the film
    kramer vs. kramer...
     i haven't dared to explore the classic
further.

every time i cook,
i think of being an inquisitor of
anorexia...
            last time i heard,
anorexia was like *******...
well... something akin to eating
through your nose...
            imagine an inquisition
of anorexia, far away from spain,
and then, start cooking -
i'll say, that's better on
the imagination than
the christ metaphor of bread
and wine...
            just imagine an anorexic
strapped into a chair
while you start cooking
spaghetti bolognese (e.g.)...
    if i see an iron maiden, i'll tell you...
it'll probably be the chattering
jaw of the anorexic
   telling me in tongues:
            feed the pigs this ****!