Long Wooden spoon Poems
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when i was a silly kid ,
'round the age of 17;
i pulled a trick on gran'ma,
it was really kind'a mean!
while gran'ma was a' snoozin',
like a spy down underneath;
i crept into the bedroom,
& swiped her false teeth!
early the next mornin',
i heard someone fussin';
pots & pans were a' flyin',
as it soon turned into cussin'!
i stepped into the kitchen,
gran'ma was squishin' tomatoes;
she reached beneath the cabinet,
& tossed a bag of potatoes!
stars, moons, & saturn,...
swirled above my head;
gran'ma went on a rampage,
i swore that i was dead!
i raced into my bedroom,
reaching below the bed;
i pulled out a jar of dentures,
to the kitchen i quickly fled!
there stood gran'ma,
madder than the maddest cow;
she smacked me with a wooden spoon,
as i unleashed a screechin'..."OWW!!"
i learned a vital lesson,
it's healthy to keep the peace;
seniors are sweeter than honey,
but never kidnap their teeth!
It's a soup that's made to order never from a store
A little bouillon treat that's filled with herbs galore
Not the kind you get from packets, no not that kind !
with itty bitty chicken bits it has onions you can find.
I start with chicken base then add a clove of garlic,
turmeric and salt with a dash of home made magic.
I simmer for an hour while the veggies steam & swim,
singing in a playful voice, "a little blessed hymn".
I start with a clean counter then tuck my hair right in
wearing pinafore of white, with little ducks that swim
I stew it then I stir it, with a large wooden spoon
telling funny stories to a soup that cooks til' noon
Made with love and kindness, it really hits the spot,
I cook it just like mama did, when I was just a tot.
It's a soup that's made to order, never from a store,
this little bouillon treat is filled with herbs galore.
Enjoy !
I stand at Nikko's door, for I'm now in the Philippines.
She greets me. Oh, how young she looks, like someone in her teens!
"You're just the way I pictured you," I tell her with a grin.
But then, this girl I'm talking to says, "Oh, I'm Nikko's twin!"
"Oops!" I blush; then at the door, the "real" Nikko appears,
in her hand a wooden spoon and on her face, dark smears!
After hugs, she says, "I'm making chocolates. Try them out!"
Sweet caffeine with coffee? That's what I'M talkin' about!!!
Day turns to night. We sit and eat good food while chatting too
about ourselves, like long-lost friends, and plan fun things we'll do!
Written by Andrea Dietrich
For "First words over Coffee" Contest
Sponsored by Michael J. Falotico
Using a fruit and veggie jucier
juice
1 small onion
2 clove of garlic
3 medium cucumber
1/2 cup of apple
1/2 lemon
1 Tablesoon of fresh rosemary
measure 1 cup
add to
1 cup of milk
makes 2 cups of Savory Mil------------------
------------------------------------------------
1 cup savory milk (recipe above)
1/2 cup (minus 2 Tablespoons) unsalted butter, cut into 1/2-inch cubes
4 teaspoons sugar
1 teaspoon table salt
2 cups of all-purpose flour sifted
8 large eggs whisked in a bowl
In a 3-quart stainless-steel saucier or saucepan, combine water (or milk), butter, sugar (if using), and salt.
et over high and and cook until liquid comes to a rolling boil and butter has fully melted, about 2 minutes (the small butter cubes should be fully melted just about at the same time the liquid hits a strong boil).
Remove from heat and add flour. Using a wooden spoon or stiff silicone spatula, thoroughly mix in flour until no lumps remain make sure to find and squish out out any stubborn one
Return saucepan to medium-high heat and cook, stirring very frequently, until dough registers 175°F (80°C) on an instant-read thermometer; if you don't have a thermometer, other signs the dough is ready include a thin starchy film forming all over the inside of the saucier and the dough pulling together into a cohesive mass.
To use a stand mixer: Transfer dough to a stand mixer fitted with the paddle and beat at medium speed until dough registers 145°F on an instant-read thermometer (you need the dough cool enough that it doesn't cook the eggs when they hit it).
No not the kind you get from a packet oh no not that kind
this one has little bits of chicken in it, with onions you can find
I start with chicken base and add fresh grated garlic to it
turmuric, black pepper, parsley, and basil just a bit
Then I let it simmer for an hour while the vegetables steam and swim
and I sing to it with a wispy voice, that little blessed hymn
that mama taught me long ago, while making chicken soup;
Not the kind that you order in from a store next door
this one comes from the pantry shelf and garden herbs galore
I start with a clean apron and my hair tied back
its bright red with white daises, and a strip of black
Then I stew it and stir it with a large wooden spoon
then I talk to it, until the hour of noon
the way my mama taught me, while making chicken soup;
No not the kind you get from a packet, oh no its never store bought
its the way my mama showed me, when I was just a tot....
As I draw back the needle
that familiar smell of alcohol
takes me back through the years
this cloudy substance
swirls like the emotions of mind
...I remember the smell
of rubbing alcohol as it mingled
amidst the scents of applesauce
cooking atop your stove
while you stood there
trying to steady yourself
on the walker, and wooden legs
the fresh basil and tomatoes
sitting on the counter
amongst the extra apples
I gathered that morning
as they laid scattered
atop the fresh fallen dew
I was so proud
as i sat there
sipping pastina
anxiously awaiting
for a taste
from your wooden spoon
I still prefer my applesauce
warm, unsweetened
just as memory recalls
I never saw you grow old
nor did you ever see me
grow past the age of nine
yet I have always felt you near
more so now
as draw back the needle
and inject it in my leg
I feel it linger
in the slow burn
like memories
I close my eyes
and see you there
needle drawn
beneath the scents
of rubbing alcohol
and applesauce
as it simmers
atop your stove
yet my lips
only taste bitterness
of fallen tears
as they tumble
through recollection
of past
August 7, 2019
NA Rerun Contest
Sponsored by John Hamilton
Originally Written on August 1, 2019 for Cornucopia Cooking
A solitary man
I make my way up the mountain
One step at a time
The life I know further and further behind
I wish to be alone
away from the busyness
the incessant noise
my many responsibilities
life’s never ending activities
work that is never done
all of life’s many conflicts
I reach the top
sit down and cross my legs
As I look out at the landscape
my village is a small mass of thatched roofs
the people barely seeable
I see smoke rising from a central fire
wondering if I will be missed
From this distance the lake appears so small
I imagine it fitting into a wooden spoon
The horizon surrounds me
stretching my eyes
distracting me from the pebbles beneath me
blades of grass are now myopically large
I watch as the ants toil
Are our lives not the same?
Seasons change
Summer to fall
Winter to spring
I witness it all
My beard lengthens as my mind enlarges
Secrets have been revealed
Disconnected yet I am a part of all
I grow downward into the ground
Others come to the mountain top
seeking wisdom
They sit with me for a while
never staying long
Each takes from me so that they may give
I am a man transformed
Arms outstretched reaching to all the horizons
covered with foliage
The seasons continue to change
I send my leaves down to the village
beconing them to come to the mountain
no longer do I want to be alone
"Come sit beneath my branches
caress my bark smell my scent
know my soul."
You come to the mountain top
But I am no longer able to audibly speak
All that I know resides in the rings of my seasons
Still you partake of my wisdom
Putting your ear to my trunk
You can hear my lonely heart beat
aware of my breath whistling through leather like leaves
I attach my seeds to your woolen coat
You are a solitary man
making your way down from the mountain
One step at a time
Closer and closer to our village
To the ones you love
As you walk through the village you shake your coat
Seeds fall on the fertile ground
Finally I have come home...
Sometimes she would laugh.
Sometimes she would cry.
her worries
she would never
complicate
into my life.
but
when worries complicated mine
she would always
be there with a hug
With a gentle voice
telling me
everything would be
all right
Sometimes
she would be
ringmaster to my sisters and my fights
Sometimes
she would be
judge...whose wrong
...Whose right
and punishment she would then
dish out
with a wooden spoon
or
a grounding
sometimes
she would be paymaster
handing out my pocket money
[usually on a Saturday mornings]
or lunch and bus money
[on the school days]
she would
pack me off to school
my uniforms clean
and neatly pressed
upon my return
ink stained
grass stained
creased and dirty
[but she would never once complain]
she would have eyes in the back of her head
always seeing
tongues poked out
or...a middle finger raised in the air
and always knew about
those cheeky cigarettes
then I aged
came a time to leave
schoolyards behind
and to work I set off
making her so proud
but also came
the late night weekends
a license
and a car
worried
she would lay awake at nights
till my return
usually the late night hour
[though she always denied in doing so]
now I`m living away from home
her mothering I need not so much
but her teachings
and her lessons
are still a part of my life
her words of
what is wrong
what is right
still lingers inside my mind
she probably still lays awake
some nights
worrying about my life
after all she loves me
and is proud for me
to call her mum
Grab a wooden spoon, and choose a mixing bowl
A breakfast that is piping hot is worth its weight in gold!
You can make them by the dozens, or one or two will do
Make them for your next of kin, or neighbors you have got
Even for those teenage boys, ...(the ones who eat a lot!)
Let's see you fry a stack of cakes that tower on the plate
The stack is high,...but folks will sigh with happiness inside
So get the griddle piping hot, and warm syrup too
And don't forget a pot of jam and marmalade is good!
Applesauce, gets an A+ ,.......and often gets applause!
Yes you can! Whip some up.....it's as easy fix to do
No need to go to I-Hop. Just make them on the spot
Wake them up to something yummy
Fill a tummy, make 'em happy, maple syrup needs some sopping
Buckwheat makes the grumpy jolly, just stir the lumps out 'til there's none
And someone's sour mood is gone, when sourdough is stacked at dawn
Flapjacks wake the sleepyheads, before they run straight out the door
They'll turn right back to have some more .....three or four, or five or six
Butter oozing down the sides, sticky syrup glazing eyes.....mouths will water
hear the laughter.....add some nuts, or raisin eyes, make a face a big surprise
Yum! Yum! Yum! M & M's add some fun, and add a chocolate prize!
And if you dare, to be so bold
Flip your flapjack, pan-fried gold.....Just grab and hold your frying pan
It 's in the grip, ......then flip ! You can !!! And if you're lucky it will land
upon the plate........not on the floor, across the room,......
but one mistake......, just mop it up, and try it all again!
Practice tennis while you're at it,...Ping pong too...., and batter-up.....
Up it goes........and down it comes........Something yummy for your tummy
Pancake's, flapjacks .......hotcakes, hoecakes..
Pick your favorite, flip them high........ make them small or any size
Make a ton........!!! It's worth a try !
__________________________________________________
For Didactic Food Contest: sponsored by Tammy Reams
10/5/15
Here’s the story of a witch, good instead of bad.
No matter that she’s ugly as a troll.
She loves children and their innocence.
Protecting children, therefore, is her goal.
Unable to bear children,
the mother of the Troll-witch visited
a witch who gave to her two flowers:
the second one to eat was prohibited.
First the mother ate the pretty flower
and a daughter beautiful she had.
The mother, hoping for a son,
ate the second flower; that was bad!
The Witch-troll came about because
her mother did not harken to the witch.
Therefore, a witch herself the mother bore,
but her troll-like daughter was in kindness rich!
She loved and lost her pretty sister when
the trolls did steal her, and she fought.
She killed them all with a wooden spoon,
but getting back her sister she did not.
In ‘63, Hellboy came to her
for help when children gruesomely were killed,
the Troll-witch gave to him the wooden spoon.
The trolls turned into stone; no blood was spilled
I really like the Troll-witch, for
infertile Norway mothers need not mourn.
She gives them each a lovely flower, so
children beautiful to them can be born.
April 11,2023
For Robert James Liguori's 'The Women of Hellboy' Poetry Contest