Long Recipes Poems
Long Recipes Poems. Below are the most popular long Recipes by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Recipes poems by poem length and keyword.
My cooking skills changed my sad mood,
I learned them by watching patient mom in relentless motion
as she put much passion in her tasty food...
who could resist not giving it a try and carry on that devotion?
In the steamy kitchen, she spent a lifetime inventing great, exquisite recipes;
a self-made chief in her own right with neat apron and white cap;
one must have thought she was on the way to the Emmy's nomination festivities
to pick up her golden trophy...oh, I still laugh remembering that!
"Don't stick your finger in my batter, son...raw eggs might make
you sick!" mother ordered. " Wait until it's baked,
then you can eat as much as you like!" I froze, thinking of no trick...
oh, that spoon dripping with sweet batter I licked!
Mom no longer could prepare large meals for our hungry family,
she succumbed to grave illness, hoping I would take up that unbroken tradition...
and it made her so glad, sensing the bond of her precious legacy;
a massive list of recpes was the everlasting gift to me with profound affection.
We think of value as a set amount
that's given to an item held or sold.
Most often- currency is paramount;
in olden times- perhaps silver or gold.
But, there is value in a different kind-
assessed and held by memories and heart,
which far surpasses any worth assigned;
for us, become forever works of art.
A mom's embroidery, dad's old-time tools,
or grandma's written recipes spelled out.
Intrinsic values follow no set rules;
the love assigned is what they're all about.
These values- held and stored by heart and mind
Far supersede the ordinary kind.
If it smells good and tastes good, I will be munching
Eating is not about caloric number crunching
My taste bud is the judge and not the dietitian
Water, oil and heat there is no complication
Vegans have turned me into a carnivore
Better run, can’t you hear the canine roar
I dig deep into my fried chicken and t-bone steaks
I make a nutritionist salivate and dieting fake
Sorry dietitian I am lost in your jargon
The directions I look for, is how to get the tin open
The ingredients just look like a periodic table
I am used to recipes and not a chemical symbol
I keep simple it, greens for thin
I make the oil ripple, meat for fit
I can't lose touch with the starch
Some extra protein wont make me a glutton
My home cooking zest verily exposed me
to cornucopia’s functional essence
since we in the family were nourished
with blessings'* bounty…
Tasty delicacies sizzled with love
when as early in the morning, coffee brewing
would turn to sweet blends of fellowships.
My mother’s viand cooking lessons
taught me basics of right menu preparation
for “life-balance” said she… along reinforcing facts
of good ingredients' mixing, “stirred with kindness
in humane dealings,” she asserted…
midst wholesome relationships
toward meaningful bondings.
My Dad’s supper cooking pursuits
admonished me about broiling tests
as well as roasting trials
that would reveal integrity’s credibility
together with sautéing demands
toward faith drive-acceleration
against slothfulness and fruitlessness.
Thus, my spirit delighted in every cooking quest
with my siblings and parents, while joyously
we would produce our assigned “specialty”
flavored as valued signature recipes
worthy to savor during dining moments
upon simmering conversation-bliss
of bubbling gratefulness to God and steaming triumph-praise.
*Deuteronomy 28:2 And all these blessings shall come on thee, and overtake thee, if thou shalt hearken unto the voice of the LORD thy God.
August 1, 2019
Maybe I could be an ice sculpture someday.
Maybe I am today.
It’s like I’m filled with ice cream cones in my mind.
But no ice cream that can bind.
I’m as scattered as a rusted piece of floss.
I think my necklace melted and is a loss.
Which is impossible for something that should be metal…
But I think this reality has become too full.
Bizarre types of flowers popping up everywhere.
One that looks like drool you shouldn't share.
Recipes that are detailed but scream out loudly.
As everything in that commercial has been set free.
The pizza guy is at the door.
That’s the person I should implore.
But when I reached the door an hour later.
There was the pizza box I can concur.
I think he thought I lived as an ice sculpture.
Although I can’t say for sure.
My mind is like a pizza-burnt tongue.
Or a scattered lung.
That’s what it's like to live alone.
But still, they said I could never atone.
Too many cooks, who should never look to cook,
Too many cooks, who should never start to cook,
Too many cooks, who should never be paid to cook,
Too many cooks, without any recipes to cook,
Too many cooks, without any clues to cook,
Too many cooks, without any boots to cook.
Too many cooks, with drugs to cook,
Too many cooks, with books to cook,
Too many cooks, with storms to cook.
Too many cooks, that have no stomach to cook,
Too many cooks, that have no energy, to cook,
Too many cooks, that have no food to cook.
Too many cooks, who are too ill to cook,
Too many cooks, who are too frightened to cook,
Too many cooks, who are forcing me to cook.
now to try to re-formulate; that...
previous hour and a half; which...
ended with a power-off; that...
erased a brew of words; which...
mirrored both context and content; that...
was poetic meaning of a moment; which...
echoed perceived and perceiver as time; that...
had been slowed to an image of symbols; which...
illustrated an embedment of space and time; that...
reflected as a background; which...
cast spells of words from a point; that...
defined a perspective on time as the container; which...
served recipes for any matter; that...
was some form from a concept mechanics; witch...
who worried the power might shut off again; that...
once more all will be lost but the perceiver; witch...
left with nothing but ideas; that...
were a recipe for a context-content objective; witch...
stan sand
Chocolate snowballs, apple crisp,
fudge and brownies too.
It's that time of year again
when only homemade will do.
Apple pecan stuffing,
a treat to go with pork.
The tenderloin so perfect
you can cut it with a fork.
There's a streusel coffee cake
I've been making most of my life.
Once again it's time to sharpen
my best chopping knife..
I spend eleven months a year
trying not to cook
but come December out I drag
my favourite recipes book.
The list goes on forever;
muffins, cookies, pies.
I turn into Julia Child
right before your eyes.
Chocolate snowballs, apple crisp,
fudge and brownies too.
Enough to feed an army
or maybe even two.
The holiday’s at sunset
So the afternoon before
Is time for eating food
We won’t be eating anymore.
No bread or beer or pasta -
Not a bagel for a week!
I’ve been doing this since childhood,
So there’ll be no need to sneak.
It’s bizarre - I’m not religious
But tradition reigns supreme
And restricting what you eat is not
As hard as it might seem.
Of course, we use some substitutes
For cooking and to bake
And there are lots of recipes
For foods that we can make.
Tonight there will be matzoh balls
In soup to start our feast,
With 8 more days of special meals
Until we are released.
She never gave up that recipe, the
boys' favorite iced tea, made
smooth and sweet. Women
sit in the kitchen going over
coupons and recipes, regurgitating
the latest gossip heard in the
pew behind at this morning's
service. men sit on the porch
tucking chaw in their
lip pocket, spitting in a bucket
on the railing. Waiting for the
race to start, supper to be
served, the clouds to pass so
lawn can be mowed. Another
Sunday without Mama. The
iced tea is off, just enough
for the boys to notice, the
women to know they missed
again. If only she'd learned
to write, we'd have the recipe.