If you couldn’t taste it with your
fingers it wouldn’t have a flavour
that you knew – and proper
flavours grew from bowl to mouth.
I’d tasted everything my mother
mixed along the way to ruin, from
thin to thick, batters blended slick
and sticky, dough to break a wrist
or bend a waist, cakes with colour,
cakes with calories forsaken in their
evilness; I was blessed, Lord knows,
the best of culinary graces kissed
my lips. A chaste and decent man
I am for sure, but food reveals an
epicure who wears a bib and licks
his plate, a habit I can’t break.
Oh Lord,
you know I love my food.
© I.D. Carswell 2007-01-19
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