poem / kitchen-calling

The door in one hand, it creaked

The other hand held a recipe—tweaked

As I strode into the kitchen

Cooking for myself a mission

Spoons and ladles flew

Into bowls and pans very few

The glasses and plates jingle

Adding music to the tingle

As batter, cream and flour

Lay splattered on the floor

I mashed in nuts and spices

Along with huge apple slices

Mixing it all with sugar and milk

Making it look like tiny crystals in silk

In the distance I heard a car horn hoot

I knew I had to find an escape route

Too late! For the moment mom appeared

The fun and frenzy—they disappeared

She said for being careless I had to pay

Utensils had stains that I scrubbed away

And the drain had to be unclogged

Right before the kitchen door was locked!

My days of being a chef were gone

Never was I to cook alone

And neither will I ever talk

Of my mastery with the wok