Category: food



What’s better than makin’
up some more bacon,
That’s up for the takin’
When no one has stake in
The slow cookin’ bacon.

‘Cause inside the kitchen,
Those who don’t pitch in
Come in for snitchin’

And though this might be stressing
There’s no real point in guessing
The culprits aren’t confessing
Who’s stealing bacon blessing.

Do I Drive-Thru?

Do I Drive-Thru?

There is a time when it all comes together
That instant when you have to make a choice
You reach a climactic moment as to whether
You go in or speak to a voice.

Do you enter brick and mortar,
Where it’s obviously shorter.
I can’t imagine it’d be worse in-
Side where there’s one person.

Still I think the way to go
Is driving with my radio
Allowing frequency of talk in
My car to stop my walk-in.

Me and My Spaghetti

My wife went out to our yard and
Allowed the children to play
While she plucked up from our garden
Ingredients for the day

Of cooking she had planned
With fresh tomatoes, peppers and spices.
Over a hot stove she would stand
Creating some tasty new vices

For me and our dinner guests to try.
These specially made combinations
Were very pleasing to the eye
When presented as calm sensations

But before then, it’s intense
With the chopping and sauce splatters
The mess becomes immense
Although it’s taste that truly matters.

I start to do some reasoning,
And decide to boil water.
While she’s overworked with seasoning
I’ll make the kitchen hotter.

I’m stirring but my boiled over pasta mocks
The way I try to help with cooking dinner
I followed the instructions on the box
But perhaps it’s too advanced for this beginner.

Soon everything’s laid out and ready.
The conversation starts with “who’s the cook?”
My answer’s simply “I made the spaghetti.”
Then my wife gives me that look.

Changing my Routine

Andy's Mug

Everyday when we go to drink our coffee,
My wife and I have our own assigned mugs
That we place in a consistent spot we
Can find before drinking our drugs.

Leading up to our liquid caffeine
In an effort to hinder delay.
We’ve formed a substantial routine
That keeps us on track day to day.

But sometimes my mug is taken
By a guest who’s come to our house.
I’ll feel robbed, like there was a break in,
And look over to my spouse

Who sees my lost and forlorn look.
The corners of my mouth won’t turn up
‘Cause my own guest went and took
A hold of my favorite cup.

Scraping the Jelly Jar

In my refrigerator, I disperse
A line of bottles balancing inverted.
My experience and training is diverse
As seen by bottles ready to-be blurted.

My knife enters a jar ready to scrape
The scraps of jelly left along the sides,
As stained glass preserved in sugary shape
Or jammed along that curved lip, it resides.

My P B and J’s are growing thinner
But there’s always just enough for one more lunch
There might not be enough for a beginner,
But this expert scraper’s scraping out his hunch.

And when I’m finished, I’ll return the jar
Back to the fridge to find tomorrow’s knife,
I’ll angle, pry, and slowly raise the bar
Until someday it’s thrown out by my wife.

Jesus and Cornflakes

My son was eating cornflakes
And I took a flake or two.
This random act of playful theft,
Led contemplation through

A chain of thoughts that circumvent
My normal cornflake thinking
My thought pattern might represent
A drunkard ‘midst his drinking.

My tongue curled inside my mouth
Scraped the caverns of my bones
Starting North and heading south
To flick for food in pearly stones.

Then pressed against the molar
In the back most leftest corner
Sweeping Closest to the solar
Where Christ remains adorner

The food bits flick on out
With Creator from a crater
To the front of my closed mouth
Was my Lord I’d saved for later.

Imagining Manna

I imagine bread falling from the sky.
Oh Manna, that would be awesome.
Reaching out to raining rye
As angels simply toss ‘em

Out of the giant bread boxes up there.
What if it drizzled soda bread or Naan?
Maybe sticky buns would fill the air
As humidity, until the grain was gone.

The light of the moon’s on a crescent roll
That falls down with bagels and yet
I’ll venture out for a midnight stroll,
Dodging croutons and sliced baguette.

Every time that it’s graining outside
We’d see bread putting on a show.
But what if we solely relied
On flakes of bread falling like snow.