A 'Good' Cooking Guide Poem by Kevin Maroney

Across an azure sea gazeth
thee, behold to my triumph.
Peril-wrought on waves unknown,
carried to lands untold,
in velvet black sea.
The lacing runs from warp to weave
through perilous journey does he heave.
A great green beast, pocked with red,
to all else, he smells of dead.

Mortal clash and rinding metal,
ricochet and great cauldron nettle,
out great potions through the sky,
to land on some alabaster rye,
crumble to sweet marble bits in
a grand null mouth.

Cookie tremble, chocolate fall,
lost in pieces, all.
Turn to truffle, wondrous cook,
turned in rows and into soup by the book.
From raw to ever stilling ripe
turn from lovely crimson might.

Later in some modern oven,
will we brew more witches coven,
from primordal fork to launching spoon,
no need for point with lobbing boon,
a great milk poured down much too soon,
never known, but to those it shoots.

A baby served is a baby grown,
in a cradle born of neglect shown,
to ever more aspiring face,
do we feed with no disgrace.
Too late, too soon, how shall we venture sooth?
But one thing like spice is truth:

Over the fire are we cooked,
and ever more studiously shook.