Food. Poem by Roy Ballard

I can't remember food
for I can never say
what bill of fare we did include
at lunch the other day
although I think I understand
a salad tossed and oiled,
a steak adroitly frying-panned
and eggs correctly boiled.
Cordon bleu can be so trying.
Is it really worth the troubles,
this infernal flambé frying,
stoves and kettles, steam and bubbles?
I'll remember you, your mood
and what you wear but not the food.