Thursday July 29th, 2010

The exercise:

Write a bit of poetry or prose that takes place: in the kitchen.

Today I'm working on getting prompts scheduled to post from now until Tuesday, so I'll be going radio silent from now until after the honeymoon. I'll get to the comments that you guys post over the next few days eventually (See? I've learned not to promise a specific time.)

Take care and I'll see you in a few days as a married man.

Mine:

The muffins are in the oven,
Smelling like heaven's creation,
While my angel browses cookbooks
And I wait for my salvation.

My eager stomach growls loudly,
Jealous of my nose's pleasure,
So I silence it with a sip
Of this bottled liquid treasure.

The timer at last sounds the end,
Of both baking and my torture,
So I grab the biggest muffin
And get burned by the damned scorcher.

4 Comments:

Heather said...

Marc- Well written. I like the rhyming scheme, but more so the relative difficulty of making it work with words like Creation and torture.

Congratulations and I hope your marriage is as lovely as mine for many years to come. (Ten years in August!)

As far as my little piece goes, save yourself some time. It goes nowhere and if I tagged my pieces, you would find this under "crap". Alas, here it is anyway.
-------
Quietly I stirred the sugar, bananas, and butter until they became a fluffy cream. I added the eggs, milk, and vanilla and began stirring again. The repetitive motion quieted my soul. I stood at the counter, looking out the small window, the bowl nestled safely in the crook of my arm and the whisk held firmly in my hand. Leaves sang in the wind while the branches swayed to the gentle song. Birds swooped through the sky, their taunting chirps mocking the stationary ground. Children laughed and screamed, delirious in the warmth of an early Spring day.

I started to fold in the baking powder, salt, and flour. The batter thickened, the color turning even with each twist of the whisk. The motion still soothing. Soon, I knew the house would smell of bread and with it, my husband's arrival home. My lips curved upward, rounding my cheeks and narrowing my eyes in joy. I looked out the window again, pleased with my life.

Greg said...

@Heather: lovely writing, as always! I reckon you're making a cake rather than bread, based on the recipe, but either way it sounds delicious!

@Marc: Heh, great poem about the anticipation of good cookery!

In The Kitchen

Warm hands,
Smelling of flour,
Embracing a child with a skinned knee.
This is the place where butter goes to die,
And be reborn again,
As flaky pastry.
There's always healing here,
Always someone, patient,
Who knows that the time bread takes to rise,
Is the time it takes to raise a family,
That the kitchen is the heart
Of the body politic.

Heather said...

Greg,

Your comment made me laugh. I've only made one cake from scratch and it wasn't great. Edible, but not anything I would care to repeat again. My cakes come out of boxes.

That is actually the recipe I use for Banana Bread..... at least what I remember of it.

I adored your poem. Great images. I loved the butter lines and comparison of bread rising and raising a family.

Marc said...

Heather - hmm, it seems as though your 'crap' is better than a whole lotta people's 'best'. So there :P

Greg - "This is the place that butter goes to die"... what a great line!