I like to cook,
To cut and to chop,
Follow a recipe?
I think the **** not.
I guess and I taste
As I go along,
Each meal is different,
Every seasoning strong.
A pan so hot
With its sizzling sound,
Don’t come in my kitchen-
My chaos all around.
The water is boiling,
Steam clouds the air,
There’s flour on my face,
Chili powder in my hair.
Everyone knew
It was my turn to cook dinner,
Music blasting loud-
Master chef sinner.
I sing off-key
While I stir the ***,
But it smells delicious,
And that’s what I’ve got.
When it’s all done,
I plate it so nicely,
A centering ritual
That sometimes feels wifely.
For now I sweep the flour alone and scrub each little spill, but someday someone will help me clean, and we’ll dance in the kitchen until the world grows still
