You cook with abandon.

This is your hobby,

And you embrace it

With unlimited joy.

Sauce pans, skillets, steamers

All filled and fouled with ecstasy.

Never use the same spatula twice,

Never scrape the remnants in the pan.

Never try to prevent caking or baking residue.

You flit about from dough to dough,

Sauce to sauce wreaking havoc

On the shrinking population

Of unused cookware.

You cook as if no one is watching.

You cook as a chef who has

A cleaning staff on deck

To clear out the refuse after hours.

You dance in your own genius,

Announcing to the world, or the household,

That your Epicurean masterpieces

Have arrived. Unmitigated gusto

Propels you through each course.

You are sated. You are satisfied

With yourself and your subtle

Control of spices and condiments.

 

As you swallow your last morsel,

You mention casually,

“Well, I cooked, so you can clean.”

 

Later, when describing your

Unhappiness with your partner,

You’ll say:

“He never thanks me

When I cook for him.”