Too tired to give
an egg a clean break,
he crunched
into his omelette,
ready for bed

What do I love most about life? Perhaps the ability to cook explains all.

So, after our pretty laid-back meetings filled with lame jokes and modest talk about dreams, I offered myself to cook.

"I hate it", he said the moment I told him how much I love to cook shrimp.

It was ironic to discover that each of us loves what others dislike, and vice versa — or maybe, I am the only one feeling that way.

But then, he inexplicably enjoyed the meal. So voraciously. That I thought he did that for the sake of impressing.

Days roll into weeks, weeks into months, and I was still serving the same thing he could barely enjoy. And he eventually got low-key to that.

I was thinking whether he did that for the sake of adapting. It reminded me a bit of how acceptance is much glorified these days. And I was so grateful.

I even wanted to serve my heart for him.

I would gladly do that.

You need to cook

to think about what tastes good
and shop with tastebuds, textures and time in mind,
challenge your palate
with things you might not like
but just maybe through salt, fat,
sweet and vinegar
you’ll begin a journey with no end

Start with basics:
pick a thing that as a kid you loved
and muck about with it
add stuff, take stuff
reflect on heat
(too high is the trap we all fall in,
or too low, through fear)

Most of all cook, as a ritual
make victuals that force a grin
that draw friends, families and lovers in
and with greasy fingers and chins,
grand sustenance and common guilt,
we’ll smile and rise

The corners singed
Smoke rising
It was on too long
So not surprising
Next time I won't read:
The email, the text, or the
Instagram message.
Tomorrow I'll forget
I'll flick the switch
And my mind will drift
Like a balloon sailing out to sea
And once again burnt toast
Will be waiting for me

What took you so long? I’ve been waiting for you.
Dinner is cooked; our drinks are chilling, and I’ve taken a hot bath. I want to be comfortable so I can
enjoy your company.
Your kiss is tasty, did you just pop a mint?
That’s okay love, it’s all good to me.
Go ahead, make yourself at home, wash your
hands, I’ll fix our plates.
Yep, you have a steak and potatoes,
and I have fish and veggies.
But King my Dear, you’re my main dish.
Can I fix you a drink? Do you need some ice?
So how was dinner, did you get enough?
Thanks for the compliment, I’m glad you liked it.
Sure, I’ll pour you another drink, and top it off with ruby red. Do I want to hear some music?
You know I do. Put on what you think I like?
Kem is fine my **** King, and pump up the volume
cause I am ready!

I have a two-week breaking point.
For 14 days I go through the motions: emotionless.
For a fortnight of time, I am indifferent to all things.

Yet on that 15th day I snap, bringing my composure down as well.

On the 15th day, I resort back to a shell of dependency,
hunkering away in isolation with nobody to depend on.
I become a nail made for a wall, but with no wall to go into.
My sole purpose is hopeless and my ambitions crushed.

Some may say I have a two-week expiration date.

The cover never tells the truth,
          for every story... has papercuts
when you've turned the page.
             Every fable can tell a tale,
some sweet as pie, but not all apples are
syrupy, some putrefy from the core.

For this cover shows her reading,
while rabbits playfully play.
   Not one for ill suspense..

The book was different ways to
          cook rabbit, she knew they
attended this spot.
              Know your pray,
          Remember that to be at ease
gives them a false sense of passivity.

Now when your ready, make your move..
  
The best practice is to scare, for a moment of
uncertainty will make then scatter in directions
                                                    not uniformed..

With that she slammed the books pages together,
    startled bunnies ran in all directions...
The ground around sewn with steel teeth
awaiting
        gentle steps to snap shut...

She stood up proud, that the book was true,
     not all tales are fairy tales some are truthful.
As a few were still squirming, she did an act
of kindness,  the book heavy as it came down.

The family will feed well tonight,
  she had to wipe off the fur
but there were plenty more stories
of  how to capture and create
                                          that fairy tale meal..

With ideas in her head,
she acquires ingredients from creation.
She picks up some bread,
some meats and some crustacean.

With purchases in her hands,
she assembles them into her curation.
Each ingredient has a plan,
that's all part of her preparation.

She cook in her pots and pans,
dishes of her imagination.
Juggling flavours and textures,
from experience and experimentation.

She host her friends regularly,
not any one group particularly.
With smiles, laughter and her kitchen art,
everyone sense the generosity from her heart.

She is the artist,
the scientist,
the chef,
the friend
and my wife.