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It was a dark and stormy day,
Cooking tea in the usual way,
This was my mother long ago,
"Don't touch the pressure cooker, no!"
Subtly, she left the scene,
Forgot the cooker, its head of steam,
Bang! Did that curry explode,
Mum's response, implode!
"Why didn't you check that stove?"
"You told me not to touch it, no!"
All I can say on this, fifty years later,
Don't use pressure to cook my curry or taters!
Feedback welcome.
I sit in my chair
waiting for water to boil
to cook a cool meal.

Married for 4 weeks...
it doesn't seem like that long
every moment's bright.

Time to boil the corn
I already made the cheese
smoky lime queso.

He's watching the end
the show he started last night
the last episode.

In half an hour
I'll tell him dinner's ready
and he'll smile so big!
L Barbera Jul 10
Cooking in silence
on the stove-top
of my tiny kitchen.
Mixing broccoli and leeks.

I can feel the heat
from her eyes
swollen with rage.
Ocularly assailing

My words have drowned
in an ocean of wine
and childhood trauma.

Her heart lost in dissension
F A Pacelli Jul 13
cool spring water
fresh ground flour
with love and time
growing a bit sour
a spectacle divine
mer Jun 10
what's the point of writing
if no one reads it?

well,
what's the point in cooking
if no one eats it?

you might say
there is none,

but i ask you to reconsider
and remember that
practice makes perfect
This is so unexpected
What ever you are serving I am eating.
A steak fillet served soft, with the taste of your lips.
Green and red peppers seared hot,
Over open flame.
A special marinade blend, severed with wine.
I'm sure the first bite will melt in my mouth.
Grabbing knife and fork.
The juices filling my mouth, as succulent as you.
Crossing my mind with every bite.
Imagining you on the other end
Filling my mouth.
Unexpected that you'd call.
Are you more surprised that I picked up.
What ever you want to do.
What ever you are serving, I am eating.
Long as I'm with you
Smog and sizzle,
ears fight eyes to be the first report.
Colors swirling in a pan,
steam hissing up,
the ripe flesh cleft through,
spraying the counter top.
Pungent spices dance with delicate herbs
through the kitchen air.

A spoon as a baton
and a knife as a paintbrush
are tools of a necessary art
#4 in my Year One collection, from notes on 11/7
Seanathon Apr 3
When the water boils
The pasta spine breaks
And the sizzling bake refuses to stop
I lose myself in the aroma around
Cooking like this
I am
Soundly simmering within the not
And at the same time
Lost
In the time which stops
Cooking a sensory swim
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