O, that this too, too besmirched spaghetti would simmer,
Drain, and resolve itself into my dinner,
Or that my mother had not fixed
Her mind ‘gainst cooking for me. O God, God,
How arid, insipid, frangible, and scorched
Seem to me all the uses of cooking!
Fie on’t, ah fie! ‘Tis an unwashed pan
That grows to mold. Things putrid and gross in a kitchen
Possess it merely. That it should come to this.
But two days - nay, not so much, not two.
So excellent a dinner, that was to this
Souffle to a muffin, so loving to my taste buds
That it might not beteem the shelves of the pantry
Visit my thoughts roughly. Salt and pepper,
Must I remember? Why, she would cook up for me
As if my appetite would never cease
By the end of the day. And yet, within a month
(Let me not think on’t; frailty, thy name is gas stoves!0
A little month, or ere that avocado got ripe
With which she told me I had to cook for myself
Like Lawrence of Rome, all tears - why she, even she
(O God, a child that wants an afternoon snack
Would have baked longer!), left the
kitchen,
Our family’s kitchen, but no more my mother’s kitchen now
Than I to my brother’s iPhone. Within a month,
Ere yet the flour of most unrighteous bread
Had left the apron that she always wore,
She left. O, most wicked speed, to post
With such cleverness to get me to make our dinner!
It is not, nor it cannot come to good.
But break, my heart, for I must hold my tongue.