The Nervous Baker Poem by James Walter Orr

The party's on, your chef is gone
To see his ailing mom.
You need an ace to save your face;
So thus, with great aplomb,
You go and buy the things to try,
To bake your bread alone;
For after all, it doesn't call
For anything unknown.

On your first pass, you find a mass
Of gooey, shapeless dough,
Designed to be quite gluten free,
That you'll be proud to show.
You see this heap that makes you weep,
Within your bread machine,
To have impressed your dinner guests,
When served as haute cuisine.

Betting your all, the bread won't fall,
You nearly go in shock,
Because your nerves, have no reserves,
As ticks the dinner clock.
The table's set and still you fret,
With glances at your wrist,
The room you scan, as per your plan,
For things you might have missed.


Don't let your heart be torn apart
For fear your meal will fail,
Let not a doubt come fake you out,
Nor sadness you assail.
When serving lunch to any bunch,
When all is done and said:
Just make a rule, of staying cool,
And use a tasty spread.