#cooking
Tammy wynette
never sang about this
Daddy ***** another woman
while I burn American flags in the kitchen
there's blood on the tv
we have football for supper
the sad thing about being a woman
is turning out just like your mother
killed by men long before we die
I may be many things
but ill never be a wife
5h ago
Jun 3, 2026 at 8:30 PM UTC
I make soup exactly like my mother did.
Too much parsley.
Too much care.
Enough food for an accidental village.
Nobody teaches men this part about grief:
how domestic it becomes.
You inherit gestures.
Tastes.
Ways of cutting onions.
Sometimes I stir soup
and suddenly remember her wrists.
Not even her face.
Just wrists moving through kitchen light.
Memory is strange and disrespectful.
Outside, Belgrade is gray and expensive.
Inside, steam on windows.
Jazz low in the background.
My friend sleeping on the couch after heartbreak.
Of course he came to me.
Apparently I look like someone
who keeps extra blankets for emotional emergencies.
The soup helps.
Not completely.
Nothing completely helps.
But people become softer after eating.
More honest.
Which is maybe all cooking ever was:
a small interruption of loneliness.
One day I will make this soup for someone I love.
He will ask me why there is so much parsley.
And I will say:
“My mother.”
And he will not ask anything else.
That is the entire point of having a kitchen.
That is the entire point of surviving.
May 3
May 3, 2026 at 8:20 AM UTC
~for shell~
the doctor wants
world peace.
ok
not too much to ask for, I guess,
by the just in case
that’s a little late
e~arriving
so,
just letting you know
she enjoys
cooking too;
scratch any human (99.999%)
you’ll scratch a gourmand gourmet a
lover of food
mmmm
wonder if that could
somehow
be
connected to,
world peace?
😉
wink, and
et un salut
😑
fini
Apr 21
Apr 21, 2026 at 4:18 AM UTC
I am hurting, covered in salty feelings
This, pit- in my (rib)cage pierced by your kitchen knife,
this hole in my(heart) body, this emptiness left filled in with starch
Season me well, you SNAKE!
make me pretty...
beat me till I'm tender...
drown me in sauces to hide my bitter taste...
you would never, let your POISON go to waste
Turn UP the heat!
"to 360 degreesss"
BURN ME RIGHT TO HELL WHY DON'T YOUSss !!
Cook me up, you SNAKE...
because, nothing, can hide the poison you saved
COOK ME UP
I HOPE my rage fuels the fire of your DEMISE!
I want it back-
I want the time- the effort- the money- the tears... I want it all back
I'm angered by their audacity, to try, to hurt me
The people I held so dear, I spent three! MEANINGLESS YEARS!
Of three friends, who treated me like roadkill-
Cook me up for Chinese New Year why don't you
Hang me on a wall to dry for "next" spring
Put me over the fireplace to roast for your unbelievably... greedy! "human" feelings... I say with seething anger
The feelings that made my eyes fuel the pools of your ego, the delusion of Your perfect image, the ghost of who I believed you were...
I will no longer fall for your petty lies, your innocent smiles, and pleading cries
Your both snakes and you know it
So cook me up,
But nothing can hide the bitter side
Of your CYANIDE
Apr 4
Apr 4, 2026 at 1:27 AM UTC
first, the dry ingredients
puff of smoke
cough a lung
then, the wet stuff
fold in your love
mix in your life
beat in your blood
let it sizzle
let it sit
when the heat settles
what have you done
Mar 2
Mar 2, 2026 at 12:52 AM UTC
Five bucks an hour.
Scrubbing filth from steel.
Hands shaking.
Stomach knotting.
Head buzzing with withdrawal.
Friday night restaurant.
Busy as flies in a barnyard.
Boss barking.
Her “perfect technique.”
Step outside. Cigarette in hand.
Walk home.
Pennsylvania gray streets.
I’m a stranger here.
Jan 21
Jan 21, 2026 at 7:27 PM UTC
There's a man who's been called obese
His size, it plays hell with his knees
He blames water retention
But fails to mention
He's addicted to food cooked in grease.
Feb 10
Feb 10, 2026 at 7:47 AM UTC
Money given, transaction completed.
Deep down all I feel Is defeated.
For I had his attention for a mere second
But a "mere" second is not recommended.
For I desperately desire your entire mind,
Because my sad reality Is that you have mine.
Walking away frustrated...flustered, why bother flirting If all you were going to offer was mustard?
Sitting far enough to steal my glances. Sure to never blow the cover I have planted.
watching you smile while making my food, forcing you to do something for me...how shrewd.
Ah the first bite a toast,
A toast to the idea of love that never existed, expect inside the food that I had insisted.
All this yearning Is making my fries taste twisted.
Jan 7
Jan 7, 2026 at 3:31 PM UTC
my husband's edition.
serves: zero.
prep time depends
on how long it takes
to ruin good produce.
ignore the recipe notes,
yet follow everything,
measure with a scale.
somehow still oversalt,
add enough pepper
to weaponize the broth.
let it simmer, thicken,
until you’re questioning
your methods.
when its texture turns
from soup to sponge,
try to rescue it
with store-bought cream
and forty-five minutes later,
hovering between uber
and just eat,
plate it with a hint of regret
and the admittance of defeat.
Sep 30, 2025
Sep 30, 2025 at 4:54 PM UTC
The *** never worries about its shine,
but only if the chef can stir more than heat.
Good looks can season the eyes, but flavor
fades quickly if the soul isn’t fed.
Jewels on the counter don’t make a meal—
the scars of the pan prove it’s lived through fire.
A recipe isn’t written in gold, but in burns,
in the scrapes, and in hands that keep cooking.
So dress the kitchen however you please,
but know this: the worth of what you serve
is weighed in the scars you carry, not the shine
you polish.
And now I ask—
__which kind of *** are you__?
Sep 9, 2025
Sep 9, 2025 at 12:09 PM UTC
Watching old Anthony Bourdain
and I hope the uneaten food gets donated to his staff
like how the great feasts of young King Henry VIII
got thrown to poor, after He had a bite or two
of foie gras done 12 ways
Never mind
After all that's happened
Tony should be beatified
I remember laying on the floor of my parent's room
when I couldn't get to sleep in middle school
and we'd watch a back to back block of No Reservations
on a 13 inch box TV on their nightstand
The next thing we knew, people grew more open for a time
Wegmans' got sushi, and Dad loves it
The parents weren't so ashamed of the city they fled to the 'burbs from, just for a second
Took them to a bespoke restaurant during pride month
and they thought it was a gay bar
just because they flew a rainbow flag out front
They grew to welcome it
for a few years at least
Thanks Tony
Wish you were here
and I had more to say about that
than a ******* postcard script
Your voice is still echoed in my house
on an endless nightmare streaming channel
kept on mostly for my chiweenie
You'd be horrified, but
still I know your take
could help reinvigorate our hope in a connected world today
Jul 10, 2025
Jul 10, 2025 at 4:35 PM UTC
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.
Jun 30, 2025
Jun 30, 2025 at 2:25 PM UTC
The mean old man,
he’s serving food.
I’m not a fan
of how he’s rude.
His angry voice
and bitter way,
give me no choice
but stay away.
I dare not feel
his rotten soul.
Such icy steel
just takes its toll.
If I avoid
while he prepares,
I’m less annoyed
in vile he shares.
And so I wait
for him to go.
And play with fate
I do not know.
Mar 27, 2025
Mar 27, 2025 at 2:29 PM UTC
Don’t reconcile with a rebel,
If you’re scared to run with rebellion.
Don’t you try and cook,
If you’re scared of being burnt.
The trampling feet of warriors,
And the licking flames of devotion,
Will cast your foolish soul to the ocean.
Feb 18, 2025
Feb 18, 2025 at 2:44 PM UTC
Mangonadas for dinner,
or maybe just a snack.
Cooking isn’t my forte—
an unfortunate skill to lack.
But when I was a child,
my brother caught on fire.
He leaned against the stove
as if it were his pyre.
Falling to the floor,
he stopped and dropped and rolled—
and luckily for him
the fire was controlled.
I ran upstairs in terror!
I screamed and I cried!
I thought I’d lost my brother—
I thought that he would die.
Lifting up his shirt,
he showed his big, black scar—
Such a drastic contrast
I could see it from afar.
Anxiety came in,
and never did I learn
to cook myself dinner—
too afraid to burn…
Feb 8, 2025
Feb 8, 2025 at 12:55 AM UTC
An electric connection,
Between my mind,
And my fingers.
I moved to wash my hands,
As the water froze fresh from the faucet,
My hands began to spark and fry.
Now I have frost burn,
In my electric skin,
From washing my hands in Michael's kitchen.
Now I'm wishing,
I never needed to make solid soup,
I could've stayed wet,
Contrary enough for my body's technology.
Jan 17, 2025
Jan 17, 2025 at 10:35 AM UTC
Alexa
Enya
oven
rain
tumble drier
cats
washing machine
Dec 5, 2024
Dec 5, 2024 at 7:39 PM UTC
I flip the pancake over like
you've flipped my love for you.
The skillet hot with butter
and a splash of oil.
The batter becomes thick,
flattening on one side
raising before falling.
The edges becoming crisp,
a mix of heart and soul
and all the simple, consistent
consideration in between.
When I am alone, I can make
the perfect pancake.
But when someone is watching,
I flip the batter too soon.
The circle is broken, and the batter
bakes unevenly on the skillet.
It still doesn't take away from the taste.
Sometimes, I still feel like a fool.
All it takes is the heat of reciprocation
whether the spatula is cheap or
expensive.
I eat it anyway,
just like you've flipped my love for you.
I brought a better spatula.
I'll drizzle you in butter and syrup,
and eat until I can't anymore.
Nov 28, 2024
Nov 28, 2024 at 2:24 AM UTC
"
Forged by Mom's tender hands,
In the fiery lair of the kitchen where I was once a squire.
We swayed our aprons like a hero’s cape,
Bravely marched through the crucible’s draconic breath.
We unsheathed our wooden spatulas,
Raised our mighty metallic forks,
And lined our legion of spices, ready to make the dish.
Like witches,
We simmered the water with salt from the Baltic Sea,
And oil procured from the labyrinth of shelves.
As we waited for it to rattle with bubbles,
Our sweat poured like the pasta we threw,
While we smacked our iron pan into the horns of the oven.
It screeched an ear-piercing clang,
And we retaliated with our hearts beating a battle cry as we started for war.
My general ordered me to lay a grease trap.
Minutes passed; it sizzled,
The pan fired back boiling oil,
But we stood like walls—unyielding, fierce.
Brave onions leapt into the fray,
Sacrificing themselves, leaving us to grieve in tears
As the battle raged on.
The onion’s bittersweet, crispy breath inspired the garlic to follow,
Crackling in courage as it joined the heat.
Soon, bacon met the fire—
Crisping, releasing the smoky guardian from the labyrinth’s depth,
While mushrooms from the Elven forest charged in the clash.
The holy grail of Filipino-style Carbonara sauce rained on the battlefield,
Uniting the fallen, boiling *** and all,
Turning the *** into a smooth, white, creamy ocean with a steaming, smoky, crisp aroma.
We scooped our pasta water and drained the rest,
Baptized the *** with silky, snake-like pasta,
Adorned it with grainy black pepper,
And sprinkled it with golden cheese,
A finishing touch for our dish.
We cheered in victory as we prepared the feast,
Our kingdom rejoiced in tears at each slurp and each lick of our savoury dish.
As laughter echoed and stories flowed,
Mom crowned me the Carbonara knight,
A token of triumph for a job well done.
"
-Klausyuer: The ****** Poet
Oct 6, 2024
Oct 6, 2024 at 4:05 PM UTC
Rrrrrrramən
n°○°●•○●•dles
are °•●○dləs
and ○°•●dles
of n●°○•dləs,
●○°•○•●°dles.
Jul 28, 2024
Jul 28, 2024 at 9:12 PM UTC
Mystery Meat
You'll find it sometimes
in what you eat.
What it is, you might ask?
It's Mystery Meat!
Smells kinda weird,
and looks just like ****
I don't want a dollop.
No, not even a scoop.
I don't even want it in Mystery Soup.
Apr 22, 2023
Apr 22, 2023 at 10:29 AM UTC
or
EGGSISTENTIALISM
I put eggs in a ***
with some water to cook
turned the heat up to hot
then the egg-timer took
and I gave it a spin
so the sand was on top
and an aperture, thin,
let the grains start to drop
like a little landslide
that just in a short while
had begun spreading wide
from a conical pile
then I saw myself there
in the egg timer's glass
and returned my own glare
just to fill the impasse
but my face looked obscure
seeming bulbous and stout
with my chin on the floor
and my brow at the spout
as the sand tumbled south
to the hour-glass base
down my nose to my mouth
just like tears on my face
then I had this strange thought
as I took an egg cup
of how time can run short
while it's filling right up
now a thousand yard stare
in those eyes, I could see
existential despair
facing infinity
they left no room to doubt
that we'd both been misled
that time doesn't run out
- it falls right on your head
'til you're buried alive
with a mouthful of grit
you might think you'll survive
but it's not prone to quit
then your eggs are all done
time's caught up and been spent
by the end of the run
your not sure where it went
but time waits for no man
that much can't be denied
so boiled eggs? change of plan -
in the end had them fried.
Dec 3, 2022
Dec 3, 2022 at 5:02 AM UTC
# *Twin glasses of orange juice, froth quietly fizzling out
A plate of turkey bacon piled overzealously high*
I would cook you French toast every day, if you'd let me.
*Fresh croissants from a bakery down the street
Halved strawberries drizzled with honey*
I'll sprinkle cinnamon in our coffee, just like my grandmother used to.
I don't know much of love, but I know this:
When the sun breaks through my kitchen window,
I hope you'll be sitting at the table. #
Nov 17, 2022
Nov 17, 2022 at 4:14 PM UTC
abused aromas
fuse the dwelling
throats slacken and tighten
good cooking can make a home
a rooted clut of tallow
home
sweaty home
ignite another cigarette
scrape a fingernail on the sofa
a white grippy trail
scrunch your toes in the deep greasy carpet
and salivate on the wender of smoke
from the cooking of the roast
Dec 27, 2021
Dec 27, 2021 at 11:38 AM UTC