Onions
Onions
My grandmother calls me into the kitchen and tells me that it is time that I learn to whip up a meal that will snag a man’s heart.
Grab the onions.
Little did she know, I have already peeled back the bipolar faces of onions. First the outer layer which is usually pleasant. Then one more is funny. And then another is sweet and another is mean and another is selfish. They are all opposite tastes of everything you are. I realize I loathe them.
Grab the knife.
Little did she know, I have already cried from dicing onions. The malodorous stench still lingers in my throat. The putrid smell still stains my fingertips no matter how many times I have washed them. I have tried so many times to love onions. I have fried them, grilled them, sautéed them. Nothing works.
Is there any better way to ruin a meal?
Post Comments
Poetrysoup is an environment of encouragement and growth so only provide specific positive comments that indicate what you appreciate about the poem. Negative comments will result your account being banned.
Please
Login
to post a comment