She sent me a note about how I'd feel,
If she serve for me a home cooked meal.
When she asked about what to prepare,
I answered thus, honest and fair.
Nothing in the world of food,
Will put me in an evil mood.
Be it from Budapest or Paris France,
By Julia Childs or Chef Rosenkrantz.
There is one exception it is true,
That'll turn my stomach and make me blue.
Soup from the blood of ducks, I cannot drink,
For it looks like mud and tastes like ink.
So feel free to steam or boil,
Any veggie from the soil.
You can bake or broil, or stir and fry,
Any meat that once did, walk or swim or fly.
My only request for the meat I'm fed,
Is that it be not only quite, but thoroughly dead.
There is a PS that I need to send now,
About the sweets that come after the chow.
Is there something I need to prepare,
For a dessert that we later may share?
I could prepare a certain measure,
Of anything you like to bring you pleasure.
The best timing for sweets is known to a few,
Only valued by some but still very true.
Before and after a meal, it's observed,
The meal be graced, the dessert be served.
Though thought to spoil the taste, some do think.
If we early from the chalice of pleasure do drink.
But I offer that pleasure if taken and shared,
Is it own reward especially if paired.
I leave now the spices to simmer,
And in your heart a spark to glimmer.
May that spark in the simmering, grow,
Like steam in a pan, from the fire below.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.I would like to translate this poem