Ok, I couldn't help myself- here's another poem. I never used to cook for myself, could only cook rice, then the economy hit and I asked my mother for recipes as a way to save money and cook my own food. Turns out I'm actually a good cook and her recipe was so delicious and light like crepe, I decided to write a poem about it. Relax, it's just an experiment which I often like to do with my writing.

As I pour one cup of flour in a glass bowl

it cakes and puffs like powder

then settles, until I break three eggs

and watch them fall, plump

and race gently along the sides

of the mountain, towering like mount Everest.

The yokes peaking through

slender, shiny, sheets of film.

Half a teaspoon of baking powder

falls like rain and pimples the egg and flour.

Two tablespoons of sugar, a pinch of salt

clash as they land on the mound

in a war over territory, blood being spilt

over truth...Is it sweet? Is it sour?

A dichotomy solved through blending

like a democrat and a republican, like love and greed,

they marry together, to craft an intimate world,

so tender, delicately glazing the palate,

not overpowering it with enmity.

They swim in peace and harmony, in one cup of milk...

a cleanser, cleansing the landscape of strewn ingredients-

of war, as eggs and flour, sugar and salt, and milk intercourse

as they're slowly churned by the whisk- folding and creating,

blending and breaking, giving birth.