Tasting Dough Poem by Herbert Nehrlich

She used an ancient wooden spoon
and sang herself a Christmas tune.
'Twas time to make that special cake,
you stir it first and then you bake.
However, there are many stages
(and in my cookbook several pages) ,
each boasting individual taste;
it never pays to bake in haste
thus sampling is, of course, required
each mouthful waits to be admired,
and by the time the cake is set
to see the oven, you forget
if sweetness was sufficient and
again you do immerse your hand,
each finger into virgin dough
it is devine now. Ho, Ho, Ho.

I have been told that men refuse
to taste, unless it's potent booze.
As for myself, when still a boy,
I'd leave the most exciting toy
when mother got the flower out
(or when she mixed the Sauerkraut) .
Eggs, flour, sugar, various spices
those were for me my early vices,
vanilla, cherry, cinnamon,
then icing sugar pasted on.
No drugs were used, we got our highs
by dipping into doughs and pies.