Tag Archives: Food

A Quick Breakfast


I was really tired when I wrote these!



I want an egg sandwich.
These things make themselves
If you’ve lost enough sleep
You can watch them
Make themselves
Life is easier when your breakfast is sentient
And ambulatory
As long as its attitude toward being eaten
Is positive.
A positive attitude
Can really make or break
A good breakfast.
Don’t break my breakfast
By giving it existential dread
Don’t let it start enjoying the real world
Or fearing death
Because soon
I must eat it
And I hate having to catch my own breakfast.
Swifter than a deer
So does the yolk in my egg sandwich run.



A second attempt:


Every morning
I must catch my own breakfast
The eggs are runny
The bacon is cooking fast
And these quickbreads won’t get away from me anytime soon.
But they’re going to have to get up earlier than that in the morning!














Cozy Kitchen Poem and Evil Cat Journal


At 5:30 Sunday morning, I awoke to the sound of Satan himself breaking into the bedroom. Kato kitty had seen another cat outside the window, which lent him evil feelings, put a crack in his pure soul, and allowed the devil to possess him.
I’m not sure what exactly I heard but I actually woke up screaming. I’m not an easy girl to scare but oh my god he got me good, and whatever I felt, Don felt it times three. Needless to say, he wasn’t allowed to haunt the bedroom anymore; he was liable to eat any one of us in this state. I got him in the kitty equivalent of a full Nelson put him in the garage until the possession had passed.




What is it about a kitchen.
Warm and cozy
Oven on
Skillet toasting
The smell of butter and onions
Or homemade bread
Or chocolate chip cookies
Puts its arm around your shoulders
And plants a warm kiss on your cheek.
The kitchen chairs are rarely the most comfortable
But it doesn’t matter
Everyone is too happy to care.
Talking, tasting, drinking, joking
Home is where the hostess is.














Bloomin’ Onion


AKA onion blossoms. They’re always at state fairs and greasy steakhouses. Do people outside the States eat these? It’s one of those things that’s just so bad for you, but worth it. Like everything at the state fair, all of which is deep-fried. Cowdog Creatives and I were joking about writing a poem about onion blossoms, now it’s reality.




greasy witch hands reach upward

pointed fingers of batter

inside are pale, limp worm bones

lost vegetable, battered and fried into crustacean

oil pooled in pockets

golden anemone

god of saturated fats

I think there’s an onion in here somewhere

pick a piece like a flower

light, empty crisp

loose guts slip out


How are we going to finish this and then

a sodden cold napkin and dark brown leavings

which even we couldn’t face

throw it away, wipe our fingers

and pretend it didn’t happen

but evidence remains

in our fingers, breath, stomach gurgles














« Older Entries