Cookbooks Poems | Examples

The Recipe on the Box

Each year I make the matzoh balls,
Which come out pretty good.
My husband cooks the chicken soup;
Our roles are understood.

He always wings it when he cooks,
Just uses what’s on hand
And never needs a recipe,
Which I can’t understand.

I follow the directions
When I cook or when I bake
And measure the ingredients
So there is no mistake.

My time-worn recipes are stashed
In cookbooks or in files;
The drips and spatters dotting them
Evoke nostalgic smiles.

Yet always for the matzoh balls
What has the most appeal
Is the recipe that’s on the box
Of any matzoh meal.

That’s up until this year – there was
No recipe at all!
I Googled and saw dozens,
But not one my matzoh ball.

Until I saw a posting
From a woman who, like me,
Asked if anyone could help her
Find that box-back recipe.

Voila! Someone responded
With a picture of the box.
It’s amazing what technology,
From time to time, unlocks.

I made the matzoh balls
And hope they’re good as they appear,
But I copied down the recipe
So I’ll be set next year.

Apple

As crisp or tart, she favors my cookbooks

Perfect dessert whether October or June

Pumpkin's cousin, come autumn is overlooked

Luckily, any month, week or afternoon

Every season, the sweet apple fills my spoon

09/22/23

Love For Reading

Sheila loved reading about forensics and dinosaurs that once flew
She adored non-fiction, biographies, mysteries, UFO stories too
What kind of a mother will she be? Asked her cousin Strange Lou.
The kind who showed intelligence, a lifelong learner, tis true.

Her husband was amazed at how many books Sheila would read.
She studied manuals and cookbooks, as her family did feed.
Why does Mommy love books so? Her youngest asked, her name was May
It gives her excitement, said her oldest daughter, a reader, named Fay.

The family knew that Sheila would never go hungry for a book.
They were hidden in her cupboards, under the sink, and in a nook.
Sheila never stopped learning, she knew more than a PhD.
I know about Sheila because she is the woman who raised little ole me.

Jump To Recipe

Not so very long ago
When I wanted to bake
I would go to my cookbooks
For a recipe to make

Tattered and stained they were
History literally splattered on
Notes written like ‘doubles well’ 
Or ‘sponge cake by Yvonne’

….sometimes even a photo…..

Today for recipes I scroll the net
Searching methodically
For the only tab I want to find
Labelled ‘Jump to Recipe’

Now, I don’t know about you
But I don’t want to be besieged
By pages and pages of text
Cut and pasted for me to read

I know it’s to maximise SEOs
And other such kinds of device
But for God’s sake, get to the point
When ingredients and method suffice

I don’t want to know the origin
Of different pasta shapes
Or how cinnamon got its name
Or rare varieties of grapes

I have no objection at all
To a small communique 
But screeds of text turn me off 
So I’ve ordered a takeaway

Noodle Kugel

Everybody’s noodle kugel
Varies in a way
And some taste just as different
As the night is to the day.

Most recipes were handed down,
A bit of family lore,
Or found in temple cookbooks,
Which have recipes galore.

I tried a few when searching
For the one I’d call my own,
Since the kugels of my grandmas
From my memory have flown.

But I hit upon the perfect one
And make it every year.
Not everybody loves it
But each piece will disappear

Since whatever’s left, I’ll wrap and freeze
So it won’t go to waste
And then, bit by bit, I’ll eat it
‘Cause it’s made to just my taste.

Old Cookbooks

I’m tossing out most of my cookbooks;
Makes sense since I don’t really cook.
The pages are marked
From the times I embarked
On a challenge which I undertook.

Those recipes once brought me pleasure,
But now seem like much more of a pain.
I’ve got quite a good deal
Since my spouse makes each meal
So from kitchen work I can refrain.

Still, from reading the notes I once entered
On those pages all covered with stains,
I can wistfully say
Things are better this way
For at dinner now, no one complains.

Traveling Cookbook

When I travel near and far, 
I find a cookbook that is a real star.
With thousands of great recipes to cook, 
How in the world do I just take one look?
 
 
Date Written: 10/12/2020 
Taken From: Recipes and Cookbooks Galore
Rithimus Divisa 10 Poetry Contest                                                           Sponsored by: Gregory R Barden

Anna Mae Malbank

A drive to Malbank
In Ontario is an area
On a country side road
A mennite restaurant
Where people go to eat

This place is also is a bakery
Selling an variety of bake goods
Plus souvenirs and keepsakes
Books to read and cookbooks to
Its a special place

Their meals are homemade
Broasted chicken their specialty
Favourite of the crowd
A taste that can not be beat

There are other meals 
They are just as tasty
Roast beef or pork chops
All meals are delicious
It is hard to choose

All sorts to choose from
Shoy-fly pie-blueberry
Many more to choose from
Different ice cream flavours
Home made pies sold out

Recipes and Cookbooks Galore

I am a collector of cookbooks from every store,
I can never have enough I always need more.
Cookbooks with pretty food pictures galore,
I find them on every shore.
When I travel near and far,
I find a cookbook that is a real star.
With thousands of great recipes to cook,
How in the world do I just take one look?
Cookies are oh so sweet,
Much better than a red beet.
Maybe I need to look up meat,
We can add some cheese and let’s eat.
Maybe a salad will be healthy,
But I don’t think it will make me wealthy.
Hundreds of cookbooks are lined up in a row,
I hope they do not fall on my toe.
Now off to my kitchen to see what I will cook,
Should I read a cookbook for just one more look?

 7/13/2019

In This Coming New Year

In this coming new year-  I plan changes,
oh, I would like to burn this past year to ashes;
not seeking a metamorphose either.

Because there are parts of me that shine and glitter,
but there are parts with pain that I must leave;
and I will succeed because I believe.
          I have strength and courage,
          will not be held hostage;
          I am a survivor,
          grief will not be my anchor.

Each day, I will be thankful for my home,
because some only have the streets to roam;
and the days and long nights can be so cold.

I will promise that more poems will unfold,
I intend to study more and read books;
fiction, poetry, and cookbooks.
          My words will be quiet,
          calm will be my spirit;
          serenity will me mine,
          and happiness will twine.

_________________________
December 29, 2017


Poetry/Rhyme/In This Coming Year
Copyright Protected, ID 17-9776-79-0
All Rights Reserved.  Written Under Pseudonym.

Doctors Orders

You’ll do it yourself – the day after the doctor 
said, “no heavy lifting.” And your husband 
(dreaming again) insisted on a patriarchal turkey 
like you always used to have, when he’d 
handle the fowl part of Thanksgiving. 
You fixed side-dishes; but cooking giblets, 
stuffing the bird, making gravy – that was his 
domain. You just stayed out of his way. 
But this morning – 20 pounds of thawed raw 
flesh in the sink – he swore he couldn’t 
remember a thing about it, so it’s up to you. 
Lifting down the great ceramic crock 
from the top-shelf cabinet; mixing chunks 
apple, celery, onion, mushroom, cornbread for 
the stuffing… well why not, it’s up to you, 
you have some cabbage in the fridge 
that needs using, and cabbage has such a sweet-
peppery taste. Stuff the cavities, ease that 
ponderous turkey onto its rack in the oven. 
Three cookbooks spread out on the table, full 
of theories on salting or not, stuffing 
or not, how long at what temp… you’ll 
just wing it. That’s how a bird gets through life.

Passing of An Icon

Passing of an Icon


An accomplished Lady of recondite letters
Writing humanity to free from its fetters-	
From your clever Prose being deciphered,
With skewed minds, is where you differed. 
And where, with prejudice, our minds think
Fellow Human beings can foul or sting
Indeed, there the Grass can loudly Sing!  	

Your discerning Eye and your sharp Wit
Endowed your firm hand with incisive writ-
Doris Lessing, rendezvous of every culture,	
You ardently celebrated the pen’s rupture
With that broad mind and feminine looks
Reminiscent of the Golden Notebooks(s);
Thrall from callous confines of Cookbooks!

Doris the Amazon, you were sadly dismissed
Yet, in our hearts you’ll be happily missed;
The Vim, the Spirit, and your Idiosyncrasy
Will be cherished as our invaluable legacy:
Of a male Chauvinist or me a cold raptor,
From time immemorial, being a cruel captor,
To bow stepping forward to accept the Sceptre!



**Dedicated to the Great Writer; Doris Lessing, upon her passing on at her home on 17/11/2013.

JM

Angel Nanna

my nanna was like one of many family /friends id rely on te one id g run to when i cant run to noone else. She was the one that always toldme when i had stomach surgery be strong brea it will get better.
 She was the one that said brea if you put your mind to it you can acomplish your cookbooks be the best chef ever she was always the one if im upset orin the worst pain ever she'd find some way to cheer me up even if it was talkn bout guys on in or recipes the times me and her would talk bout her hethern .how she wants me to get my GED and goto college to be a chef.

Well nanna i put my feet down in the ground more i aint giving up im gonna start my GED study guids finish my 1st cookbook with then the next 2weeks 

Ilove u nanna always

" a Mother's Day Rose"

To mother Pearl with roses
Who loves not lies nor poses
Dislikes neighbors that’s nosy
Likes good weather that’s rosy

Mom is a very good cook
Cooks from scratch not from a book
In cookbooks she never looks
Cook’s lessons she never took

Momma Pearl now eighty three
Hoes her own garden you see
Has her own freedom to be
An amazing Cherokee

Bothered not by who you are
She still chauffeur’s her own car
Believes work, we all must bear
Works for elderly health care

Believes, healthy, wealthy and wise
Means, living life without disguise
Loves not neighbor’s unwholesome  lies
But help’s him remove from his guise 

Her motto, don’t you be cheated
Living character defeated
With a love that is depleted 
A change in your life is needed

This poem I give, mother Pearl 
To thee your rose, while in this world
You’ve never been a party girl
Desired not give the world a whirl

Hester Pearl’s rose, not of this world!

For: My Own Living Mother
Sponsored by: Rambling Poet
Placed # 11

Grandma Low's Doughnuts

In total darkness flesh rests
and at first light rises.
Sky blue eyes search 
bibles and cookbooks for direction.
Bless cheeks with pink powder blush.
Punch dough down.
Dress fingers in white flour dust.
Invoke a flame.
She commands all the elements,
motions us to stand and watch
at her tall stove-pot.
We peer over the edge
into galaxies of hot oil.
Planets pop and bob into life.
Aroma undoes us and
time floats hellishly slow.

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