A Cook’s Christmas Poem

The cook had started to think that his day would never end

As he layered cookies, deep in a little red tin.

“Why, oh why,” he wondered aloud,

“Am I baking cookies? My head is not sound.”

For “I am a cook,” he said with a heave,

“Not a baker nor chef, those are special breeds.”

“They are used to hot ovens and timers and dough,

While I am not used to hovering over a stove.”

My idea of cooking is to dash and to sprinkle,

Then run here and there making the grill marks sizzle.

German dough I can do, with sausage and risotto

And other savory delights that would please even Frodo.

That most favorite of all the hobbits,

Who was known for his tastes in ale and fine chocolates.

A shiny new ring I should deserve,

For baking these cookies full of egg nog preserves.

 

But the Christmas spirit was upon the stubborn cook,

Despite how easy the cookies looked in the book.

Batch upon batch went in the trash,

While his son munched all the potatoes and mash.

Cooked earlier by his mother, the cook’s lovely wife,

Who watched with great interest at her husband’s strife.

His mood did not shift, his attention didn’t wander,

Even when his young son’s little hands did ponder.

The thoughts of checking out the hot stove,

Which did nothing but silently glow.

And burn all the cookies, one by one,

Until the cooks restless eyes found the target was won.

That sweet spot under the glowing red wand – And now the battle was almost won.

 

He tumbled into bed, to dream of omelets,

Succotash and rice.

And all those savory dishes that always turn out just right.

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