Tag Archives: humorous poem about food

Too Many Cooks

 

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Too Many Cooks
(The Food Critic Invades the Kitchen)

In the guise of  gourmand, I fear that you laid waste
to my soup’s exquisite balance after one swift reckless taste.
You lifted up the salt shaker and ruined my day’s work
by heavily over-salting my consommé, you jerk!
Then you made it cloudy by adding a fair dollop
of sour cream that sat there like a tumor or a polyp.
The soup base that I’d toiled over for many an hour,
you squeezed a bit of lime into, transforming sweet to sour.
So in the end when you pronounced the verdict on my soup,
rating it as less than gourmet food and more like goop,
you neglected to take credit for your efforts at its ruin.
Now I rue the day my lovely soup chanced to meet your spoon!!

Prompt words today are gourmand, base, guise and cloudy. Links are below:

https://ragtagcommunity.wordpress.com/2019/05/11/rdp-saturday-gourmand/
https://fivedotoh.com/2019/05/11/fowc-with-fandango-base/
https://onedailyprompt.wordpress.com/2019/05/11/your-daily-word-prompt-guise-may-11-2019/
https://wordofthedaychallenge.wordpress.com/2019/05/11/cloudy/

Hunters and Gatherers

Hunters and Gatherers

Each animal survives because of some unique ability.
The chipmunk gets along in life because of its nimbility.
It scampers over rocks and logs with speed and grace and pluck
to grab up errant picnic crumbs (on days when it’s in luck.)

Lions live by tooth and claw and speed to hunt their prey.
Cows just use their molars to masticate their hay.
Incisors furnish beavers with foliage and bark.
Raccoons have larger eyes than us for hunting in the dark.

If food in lofty places is what monkeys desire,
they can use prehensile thumbs to journey ever higher,
but an elephant’s long trunk can help him reach what he may please

obviating his necessity to climb up trees.

Humans , however, do not need  trunks or speed or climbing.
They do not need agility or viciousness or timing.
They have no need to wait in hiding by some water hole.
They simply use their money to buy  filet of sole!

 

Today’s prompt words are nimble, obviate, desire and money. Here are the links:

https://ragtagcommunity.wordpress.com/2019/04/29/rdp-monday-nimble/
FOWC with Fandango — Obviate
https://onedailyprompt.wordpress.com/2019/04/29/your-daily-word-prompt-desire-april-29-2019/
https://wordofthedaychallenge.wordpress.com/2019/04/29/money/

Poetry Pie (A Recipe)

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Poetry Pie

Pick an armful of fresh words from the poet tree.
Trim off dry leaves. Dispose of the ordinary or over-ripe.
Choose words that flower when juxtaposed.
Choose tiny clinging bees that sting.
Choose pollen-dusted blossoms that make you sneeze.
Choose agile leaves that swing when you breathe on them.
Staunch stalks that do not budge.
Throw them in a vase so that they fall where they want to go,
then rearrange to suit your fancy.

Admire your arrangement
as you bring a stock to boil.
This stock consists of honey and vinegar,
water to float the theme,
lightly peppered with adjectives
and salted with strong verbs.

When the water boils, break nouns from your bouquet.
Tender stalks may be sliced to syllables, but leave the flowers whole.
Do not cook too long lest they be too weak to chew upon.

Scoop with a wire ladle and lay on parchment to drain.
Arrange on a bed of crushed hopes pre-baked with future expectations.
Pile to the plate rim, then sift through and remove most of what you’ve put there.
Fill up to the top and beyond with whipped dreams. Careful, not too sweet.

Put on the shelf to gel.
The crust will grow crustier.
The whipped cream will not fall,
but some of the words will rise to the top and blow away.
Others will sink to the bottom and become so mired in crust
that they will stick to the cheeks and teeth of all who sample your pie,
and this is what you want.

This pie will not be to the taste of all
and there may not be enough of it to satisfy the taste of others,
but it will be a pie that satisfies you,
and others may become addicted enough
to order it now and then
in spite of that shelf
of so many delectable pies.
Perhaps because it is tenacious.
Perhaps because it suits their idiosyncratic taste.
Perhaps because of its placement, front and center,
so it meets the eye.

Whatever the reason, whether to the taste of many or few,
it will be there for so long as the cook holds out
and the poet tree stands and keeps blooming.

Poet Pie.  Special this week.
Comes with a big napkin and no fork
so you’ll need to eat it with you hands
and suck it from your fingers.

It will run down your arms
and cause your elbows to stick to the table,
drip from your chin onto your shirtfront,
adorning you like splatters down the fronts
of old ladies in voile dresses.
It will adorn the beards of the hirsute,
hide the pimples of preteens,
make ruby red the lips
of little girls too young for lipstick,
cause the drying lips of old women
to swell as though Botoxed.

It will cause tongues to wag
and fingers to write poetry of their own
in the air or on paper or perhaps
merely in minds
infected by the addictive
nature of poet pie.
You can both smell and taste it.
Feel on your fingers.  Hear its
tender branches crunch between
your teeth–those parts of the poem
that hold the whole together.

That poem that perhaps holds your life together
for the minutes you consume it
and further moments when you try to wash it from your beard
or fingers or chin or shirtfront,
and fail.  So a part of the poem goes with you.
Some may notice it and try to scrub it from your chin.
Others may not be able to resist,
and in wiping off its sweetness from where it has streaked your arm,
may put their fingers to their mouths to taste it themselves
and may be suffused with a yearning for a piece of their own.

Or, say, perhaps, “Not to my taste,”
which leaves more poetry pie for you.

 

Look familiar? If you were around three years ago, perhaps you read it before. Let me know if you found it worth reading again and made it this far. The prompt today is agile.

“Gorge”ous


“Gorge”ous

Everyone is cognizant that
runway models gone to fat
will very promptly get the axe
for appetite control grown lax.

Alas, it is a tragic truth
that larger forms are viewed uncouth.
Plus-sized is not viewed as “in,”
within a world that’s based on thin.

Designers never seem to feel
that models who enjoy a meal
do their fashions adequate
justice in the hips and butt.

Their hungry models  stroll and strut
with tiny waist and taut-stretched gut,
looking very lank and lean
and also just a little mean.

No doubt from hunger––their daily fate.
While as we watch, those overweight
have found a way to compensate.
We gain revenge by chocolate!

For the WordPress Daily Prompt: Gorge.

Squash Blossom: Flower (and Poem) of the Day, Dec 7, 2017

Squash Blossom

Hard to herd and hard to wrangle,
growing in a clustered tangle
here beside my kitchen stoop,
good as fritters or in soup.
Squash blooms don’t merely do their duty
as a thing of sun-filled beauty.
Their life as flowers fades in haste.
Best to enjoy them as a taste!
(Or, if at growing things you’re feckless,
just enjoy them as a necklace!)

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Lone Mountain Squash Blossom necklace.  Image “borrowed” from internet.

 

 

For Cee’s Flower Prompt.

“Diet”ribe

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“Diet”ribe

I have given up on oatmeal, overdosed on kale.
All these faddish food taboos have gone beyond the pale.
I do not count my calories, my glutens or my carbs.
The benefits for doing so are outweighed by the barbs.
I’m not turned on by Atkins. I can’t abide a fast.
I tried microbiotic, but the microbes didn’t last.

It’s become an epic battle when the girls go out to brunch.
It’s easier brokering world peace that where to go for lunch.
Before we take a mouthful, we must peruse all the ads
and compare what’s on the menu to the latest diet fads.
Then, once we find the perfect place and make the reservation,
Serafina calls me up to share her trepidation.

She’s started a new diet––something fabulously new––
and much as she hates to stir the pot, this restaurant won’t do.
We can’t go out for hamburgers. Laura’s a vegetarian.
She can’t abide the scent of flesh. She finds it most barbarian.
Of course, she will eat foodstuffs that are certified agrarian,
but salad’sout because my other friend is a fruitarian.

I asked them all to my house, bought exotic fruits and plums,
thinking a fruity salad would offend the fewest gums;
but a new friend cannot eat raw fruit. She finds it unhygienic,
and my artist friend will not eat foods she finds unphotogenic.
She balked at the rambutan and when she tried to swallow it,
choked and had to chug down a carafe of wine to follow it.

Molly is insisting on a diet ketogenic,
while Lucy won’t eat any vegetation that is scenic.
We’re reduced to no more dining out. Potlucks will have to do
with every guest providing whatever they can chew.
Me? I’ll bring a pizza. Pepperoni. Extra cheese.
And everyone can envy me as they eat what they please!

 

For dVerse Poets Open Link Night#204

Not to Taste

We spend so much of our time choosing, discussing, cooking or devouring food that we consider to be flavorful, but rarely do we consider just how flavorful we ourselves may be.

Not to Taste

I have no taste for seafood—neither sea bass nor crustacean.
My friends’ attempts to feed them to me end in their frustration.
I cannot stand the taste of them—their odor nor their texture.
I’ve heard that they are good for me, so please spare me the lecture!

When I was in New Orleans, they tried to feed me gator.
I politely turned it down and had a burger later.
For though a gator’s not a fish, and that’s something I know,
they must be family somehow, ‘cause both live in H2O!

Sometimes I go out birding up a river by the sea.
The grandson of the captain comes along to talk to me.
The river’s full of crocodiles, and birds overhead
fly in by the thousands to seek their evening bed.

They rest so gently in the trees that I forget the threat
of all those crocs there down below, lurking in the wet.
Most of the year the estuary’s cut off from the sea,
but this year there was one big rain that set the river free.

When I was swimming Saturday, beyond the surf, just me,
I saw some people looking at—whatever could it be?
I just went on exercising in the surf and sand.
The sun went down but I stayed out. The water was just grand.

But when I finally came to land, folks there on the beach
told me that a croc passed by, well beyond my reach.
And since I, too, was out there as handy as could be,
I sure am glad that crocodile had no taste for me!!!!

Today’s prompt word is flavorful. This poem found in my archives was written so long ago that I had forgotten it.  Hopefully, you have, too. The beautiful photo of ceviche was snapped in La Manzanilla, as was the photo of the croc. The event described in the poem was true, by the way. Since then I’ve instructed friends to call me in out of the water no matter how far away the croc is!

Why I Dine Alone at Burger King

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Why I Dine Alone at Burger King

I’d like a single cheeseburger with pickles on the side,
cheese but no tomato—a fruit I can’t abide.
Be sure there is no pink to see. I like my burgers brown.
You can also skip the cardboard hat. I do not need a crown.

Grilled onions on the cheeseburger and easy on the goo.
Give me a diet Coke with that. I’d like some French fries, too.
I sit down at a booth to wait, my number on the table,
but if I could, I’d supervise—that is, if I were able.

My sandwich comes. I have a bite. I see no pink or red.
I start to take a drink of Coke but have a fry instead.
It’s hot and oh so crispy. Redolent of grease.
I feel a surge of appetite. My hunger pangs increase.

I alternate the bites I take between the fries and meat.
As regular as clockwork. I do not miss a beat.
For when it comes to fast food, I do not equivocate.
My ratio of fries-to-burger I must calibrate.

I plan it down to the last fry. I don’t allow for glitches,
and woe to folks who borrow one. I do not abide snitches.
If you want a French fry, please buy some of your own.
I have plans for all of mine. I am not sharing-prone.

With one more bite of burger and only two more fries,
the ratio is one-to-two. I plan to synchronize.
I have it all planned out, my friend, so if you’re chancing by,
keep your fingers off my French fries, or somebody’s gonna die!

 

The prompt today was “synchronize. (stock photo.)

Hot, Hot, Hot.

Less Spice is Nice

Once I liked my dishes spicy,
but lately it is getting dicey.
As time progresses, I find it’s not
advisable to dine on “hot.”

Somehow, my tastes have seemed to tame
It’s all those extra years I blame,
that turn me once more into child.
Please, make my taco extra mild!

 

The prompt word today is spicy. (Another reprint.)jdbphoto

Best for Last

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Best for Last

Just as I’m ready to ingest
the morsel I consider best
and so picked out from all the rest
to be my last bite, savored with zest—
last memory of this gourmet fest—
from north and south and east and west,
descends each winged little pest,
radared in on diabolical quest
as though invited at my behest.
They put my appetite to the test,
settling as though to the nest,
their hairy feet intimately pressed
upon that morsel that I loved best.
I wave my hand over them, lest
they eat too much, then I confess
I guiltily consume the rest.

 

The prompt today is pest.