In the garden or on the hoof,
in the lake or on the roof,
we grow it, herd it, shoot it, hook it.
Pick it, wash it, chop it, cook it.
Wherever we see food, we take it.
Stir it, spit it, fry or bake it.
In Japan is the exception.
Some ancient chef had a conception
that he would not cook the fish–
just serve it raw upon the dish.
It is a strange way to be fed–
to eat a fish that’s merely dead!
In African countries, I have found,
they build a fire on the ground
and cook their food in cauldrons there
flavored with spices hot and rare.
In Sicily, the mafia bosses
favor rich tomato sauces.
First they’re fed by wife or mother,
Then they go out and kill each other.
Mexicans use corn instead
of wheat to make their daily bread.
They fold it around beans or meat
and chilis to turn up the heat!
America’s a country where
there’s food from every country there.
What’s unique in our repast
is that we want our food here fast!
The NaPoWriMo prompt was to write a poem about food, and the WordPress daily prompt was faraway. I’m going to try to combine them!