The cook, master of the kitchen, a partner in food crime, someone who should get more credit than one does. Blood sweat and tears into every tasteful bite. Sometimes dressed in an apron sometimes not yet the food smells like it came from the best eatery in town. How did I get so lucky?
From farm to table the food comes from love. Want to be overwhelmed come on over and see and how it’s prepared. Leftovers go to the fridge yet wait to long and it won’t be there. “Hey good lookin, what ya got cookin, how’s about cooking something up with me.” Every day is food crazy.
Whats’ for supper? Whose coming over? Is it a special day, someones birthday? No not really, it’s just the cook in the kitchen doing their thing. What is their thing? Love, love and love. Each piece of fruit, each slice of vegetable and bite of protein comes with full on flavour. Lots of spice from all over the world gives it its speciality. Whats your flavour?
When you walk in the door you can hear people talk. “What’s for supper, neighbour?” They may say it but what the truth is, “can I come have some.” Yes It’s pretty awesome in my house. I guess I’m bragging, yet those bragging rights are not mine to hold. I’m not the apron of apron wearer. I’m definitely not the spice bearer or chief of all chiefs. I may be the table setter, the dish washer, bread slicer or salad maker. The truth is I am not the cook. I cook pages, my creation is here on this page, I cook words.
Sometimes you get lucky and when it comes to the cook I did.