My wife is an excellent cook who claims she just ‘throws things together’. It’s a marvel to me how she gets everything coming together at the right times. It all seems to get a lot more frantic whenever I try my hand in the kitchen. She says, if I get in such a state over a simple meal, what would I be like doing something really complicated? So I thought I’d show her. . .
“This kitchen’s getting crowded, there’s not room enough for two,”
I warned my wife. “You see, a man must do what he must do:
I’ve got the urge to cook a meal, a treat for us to feed on.
The time is getting on, and so I’ve got to get some speed on.
“So many possibilities, I’ve still to make my mind up;
I want to do it right, though, so the cookbooks are all lined up.”
Eventually, I choose a gastronomical delight:
Sharp implements get wielded to the left and to the right;
Quantities are measured to the recipe’s statistics;
Ingredients get assembled in a whirl of tight logistics.
“A bit of this, a pinch of that… I’ve got to turn the heat up…
If you get in my way, there won’t be anything to eat up.”
She’s seen it all before, this gastronomic zeal and ardour.
She watches as I fly between the worktop and the larder.
“Slow down, you’ll blow a gasket,” says my wife, while standing clear;
But as usual I ignore her as my pace steps up a gear.
I bet she thinks this meal will be inedible, a joke;
Well, I am going to show her that it isn’t every bloke
Can plate up meals as intricate as this meal’s going to be,
Or serve it with such style as can a super chef like me.
By the time the cooking’s finished, I am flustered, tired and hot.
(My wife had left the kitchen long ago – her nerves were shot.)
“Madame, your meal is ready. I’m not usually one to boast,
Mais voila! Here for your delight: my scrambled egg on toast.”