May 18, 2016
I wrote a poem. "Why do I cook?"
Oh, why do I cook,
When there are always complaints?
Why do I plan and why do I prep,
Why do I attempt to serve my family with pep?
It takes hours for these recipes to make,
Let alone, cook, prep and bake.
Running to the store when you haven't any time,
Searching for ingredients that boggle the mind.
The "Joy of Cooking" requires a lot.
I don't have that tool, that grater, That pot.
All of the terms that I don't quite understand...
I can hardly chop, peel, and boil without hurting my hands.
Whether carrots or turkey,
Brinner or lunch,
I can't quite seem to please the entire bunch.
"I don't like this" she says without taking a bite.
I hold back my tongue with all of my might.
Then the other one speaks up, just out of spite,
"I love this, Mommy, may I have more later tonight?"
Don't flatter me,
You stinging, buzzing bees.
The eye rolls, the fake gag reflex,
Bring it, it has no effect.
Your negative declarations do not hurt.
I know you're only wearing me down now with kindness
In the hopes that I'll give you dessert.
But alas, I'm the Mom,
And what I say goes.
When you ask me for sweet treats,
I'll happily answer with "No's."
For I'm teaching you a lesson,
And it is as such:
Be GLAD for what you get each night,
Kids in distant lands dream of this much.
And no I will not mail your food to them,
Clever you are, my little women.
I suspect I'm not finished with cooking the meals,
Which means I'm not finished with hearing how you feel.
You may hate it, or love it,
Matter it doesn't.
A meal on your plate is better than one, that wasn't.
So go to bed now, with dessert on your mind.
Mommy's going to sit back and have a glass of wine.
written by Ky | TwoPretzels at 7:57 PM