food
This pasta predicament has us cooked,
Old floppy spies too long in the pot,
These spaghetti lines cut too easy,
Leaving our intel rather... al dante,
See you behind some tasty tasty bars,
Tomatom, and Pestor.
P.S. Luckily they are fettuccini.
My lazy sticks strike out in pairs,
Heavy beams swinging so slowly to,
A measured grab that drips with spice,
Sweet ruby droplets found on sticky rice,
The Sun is slipping slowly by,
An evening on the grass with friends.
Too much soy sauce forms a mellow pool,
Impotent in its frozen time to through the rolls,
Until with pace it rends the corner small,
But not enough to stem its rush,
So foists upon the world its virile gall,
The chaos dashed on ordered thread,
A salty smell for unshed tears instead.
Cooking past the lengthy day,
In busyness the time astray,
I chatter to keep pause away,
To see what others have say.
Dents and austere shards upon the range,
A mottled mountain crammed into a cup,
Lines go soft and faces flatten as the clay,
In time a spoon, great gaia's thrall,
Grinds the mottled mountain to a dome,
Then to a cardboard cavity amidst,
A throng of friends worn down to cups the same.
So much soup- two times no less,
It's salty blend of homely runs along the tongue,
And with a crispy bit of toast - the loaf,
Makes friends with every crunch.
Erupting in this poorly concealed laugh,
A snigger and a cackle at your jest,
Turn quickly to the sternest mouth of food,
And hood your eyes until you've had the rest,
For merry madness tends to fill the ears,
Then seasons brilliant veg though it arrests.
Uniformed flavours,
Packed into their ranks,
Entrenched in glass pits,
Distributing peas for bullets,
Yet utterly frozen at their posts.
Now to hibernate 'til Spring's thaw.
Shiny pots and pans,
All things that clang,
To bash a meal together,
To toss up food in any weather,
I'll feed the rain my steamy breath,
The sunshine puffs of great meals' deaths!
Crafting now a newly meal,
Borne from within another's mind,
Now sizzling, swaying in my hands,
The prove of taste calls forth more salt,
Halt! before an empty pan is left,
It's to be plated up for four not one,
Hot honey and it's spices rolling off the pork to bedded rice.
Hanging panels stand attent,
Looking down on passing strangers,
Eating drinking laughing bent,
Encumbered in wafting aromas,
Drawn down into a meal well spent,
Accompanied by passing friends,
Soon scattered, for a moment rent-
Apart, but found again as surely as
The sky returns to vivid marigold after the night.
Cooking up a spaceship,
Or rather tiny squares upon my screen,
To tweak the spicy nuts and bolts,
Then garnish with a splash of art,
Tinker tinker for the fun,
Perhaps I'll find it we'll just see.
Noodle soup but not the usual kind,
Instead a flowing melody I find,
In it a beauty and complexity,
A challenge and conformity,
An exploration of the frets,
A remark of phrases and their sets,
A little herbs as chords freshly picked,
A little pepper as runs I deftly flicked,
Into the noodle soup but not the usual kind,
Instead I find a flowing melody.
Men's breakfast,
Bacon if you please,
Sausage too will be class,
So many conversations with ease,
This strong community to last,
To eternity without cease,
To hold ever tighter to the mast,
Firm wisdom for the seas,
Now this, this is a Men's breakfast.
What spices work with beans?
So many questions for cuisines,
I couldn't tell you where I lean,
So the Dr told me 'Don't be keen.'
'Just grab the ham and fried eggs green!'
But this I say I've never seen,
I wipe my brow and turn to glean,
Why am I the one befuddled mean?
*You* were meant to be Eugene'd,
\- Eugene DeGooseman
Cheesy chips,
A classic from the counter up yonder,
Flavourless but the textures good,
Until you pour and pour the salt,
Now you have something quite the treat.
Scrambled eggs,
Cooked until they're clouds,
Bright yellow cumulus on the toast,
To rain down simple flavour proud,
A simple and comforting meal,
To leave my stomache well endowed.
Hit the wall,
I peel off like a pancake,
The day is overdone but edible,
Charred dough for battle scars,
Patchy with bitter and sweet,
Covered in syrup for the day is replete.
Dry cereals,
And the crunch resounds more real than reality,
And it's arid grasp seems to scatters through my body,
Like a tempest, and I'm driven to a little shake,
A sour face, for things not sour but milkless,
And a little water heralds it's incompletion.
You can have the rice tomorrow,
Leftovers that you forever borrow,
Fridged today and gone the next,
To fuel you as you craft plain text.
Cooking with gas!
Blue flames at a slight gesture,
Clicking to my culinary score,
The heat rises fast and its gone in a twist,
Seems we're cooking with gas today.
Bustled room,
That is to say that the bustling is complete,
Crazy smells wafting up from the meat,
There's some chillie and beans,
And the spices are elite,
Fueling the talk of a family of five,
Full bellies later and we're back on the drive.
Spicy rice,
Is peppered with conversation,
And sits sizzling in the wok,
Piled up and content,
Plump with flavour to aid discussion,
As tired prawns sit warm - marinating in spiced grains,
Chicken and chorizo ooze flavour beside.
Fried eggs,
Left a little crunchy round the edge,
And spiced thrice with simple salt, pepper and paprika,
Flipped and sizzled in oil,
And interspersed with tiny fragments of egg shell...
Wait a moment...
That doesn't seem right,
We'll get another crack at it tomorrow.
Reflective orbs cascade down like a myriad of miniature marbles,
They hit the pan and comingle with the oil,
The world seems to stutter for a moment,
And suddenly, a serpentine hiss rises from the metal,
Dull fireworks spray out at the reptilian call,
And the oil seems to growl over the surface of the pan,
Seems hot enough.