A measuring jug is also vital when cooking rice, as this is always measured by volume rather than by weight.
quote by Delia Smith
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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MaMa's Cooking
Thinking of times I would say what's cooking everyday
It's an assortment of goodie things
Chocolate, pies and banana pudding
Enough food and that's Mama's cooking
Thinking of times I would say what's cooking everyday
Apron in hand and lasting impression I didn't want to miss
Everything seem perfect from beginning to end
Enough food and that's Mama's Cooking
Thinking of times I would say what's cooking everyday
Smiling faces and a gentle speech of o.k.
Noone knows how much the void I can't fill
Enough food and that Mama's Cooking
Thinking of times I would say what's cooking everyday
Being polite and sincere would carry the weight
Seemingly enough she has the greater plan
Enough food and that Mama's Cooking ahead
Thinking of times I would say what's cooking everyday
The napkins, plates and never-ending why didn't it last
Noone knows how much the void I can't fill
Enough food and that's Mama's Cooking again
Thinking of times I would say what's cooking everyday
Craving for the turkey and dressing pan
Not to admit, seemed a bit much
Enough Food and that's Mama's Cooking again
So nowadays, I look for the needle in the haystack
Wishing on the times, she would come back
It's been 10 years, since I said thoughs word's
Enough food and that Mama's blessing for us
Missing mom everyday becomes second-nature for me
Enough food, Enough love and One day she'll see
For know I'll take her spirits with me and others will speak
Enough food, Enough love and One day she'll see
poem by Natasha McGee
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Eat It All
Of life and war!
Of a mighty malak with a rainbow on his head;
Seal up those things for many to learn.
They were meant for the future,
They were meant for us to learn;
So take up my love and eat it all day long.
Of a reed like a measuring rod,
Of the two olive trees;
But do let your mind be at peace always.
Of a weed like a measuring rope,
I am the one for you;
Of a seed like a measuring hope,
I really know what you want on this love;
And it is all about the love that we share,
Like the sweet food of my love to you.
To eat the sweet fruit of my love,
Like the little book beside you;
Of the feed which is like a measuring harveat,
Of the deed which is like a measuring vision,
But to heed like a measuring mission on this love;
Eat it all to satisfy yourself because,
Love is all that we share now.
poem by Edward Kofi Louis
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Rice Being Cooked
warm
steamy
bubbling
knocking the lid of the pot
vital
bright
shiny rice makes a living room
sweet as many times as I bite
fun as family gets together eating
mom, I want to see you
smelling rice being cooked
Weighing The Dolors From The Glories....
he got a measuring tape
and measured the length of possible regret
the volume of remorse
and the chapters of tragedy
all possibilities that his personality can
afford
all that conscience can buy
and he found out
that the amount of happiness obtainable is obviously
lesser compared to the risk of
isolation, the insomniac nights
the cost of psychiatric sessions
and the prescriptive drugs
the wide ocean of guilt and the storms of the raging furies
of myths
him against universe, the humanity,
how can he ever survive?
and so he stopped,
went back home, sat on the chair facing the window
half-open
his eyes are empty
his words are choking him
he is gagging
to the last scene that it was him that used the gun against himself
he did not do it.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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The Cooking Pot
our cooking pot is not made of porcelain
or silver or gold but it is made of the mud
of this earth
hardened by time and fire and too much
waiting
our patience consumed
our waiting had been too long about this cooking
pot, earthen
where we put all our dreams and cook them
like rice
porridge, all of our dreams
fired by the woods of our reminiscence
our longings our loneliness our daily concerns
our future wishes
and then when the time comes to open
and see and smell what rice porridge is
we say we like it we say we love it
only to be repulsed by this visitor in the house
'this is not cooking! This is not good! ' and he stares at us
and says, we need more fire, more wood, more time
to have the perfect porridge
i went out unable to stand this hunger
unable to see what this visitor says
it is our fault we allowed him in
we open our doors and windows and let him sleep in our room
as we lay on the floors and keep ourselves on the stairs.
'this is too much' i said.
'he must leave this house at once' i told you.
this is our pot. this is our porridge. this is our cooking.
and we must eat. we must love what we have.
'get out of my house' i said.
and then i am relieved from an opression.
i am happier now. My pot is earthen. Its bottom is sooty black.
i am blue. And i do not really mind.
This is my porridge. You may take it, if you like.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Children of the Midwest Sun
We are the children of the Midwest sun:
its light has weight, measured musical tones.
'Come along, ' sang Empedocles,450 BCE,
'and I'll tell you a tale of the Sun's nativity:
how the land, and rapid air,
damp vapors and the sea,
that bind Titan's circle around the earth,
all spring from the same identity.'
For the great Sun God, the Egyptian Ra,
lordly Mithras of the Persians,
Greek Apollo bright-orbed,
the majestic Incan Sun, Druidic Stonehenge Sun,
the Chinese, the Indian, and Australian Sun
are all One...
its light has weight, measured musical tones.
We are the children of the Midwest Sun:
the buzzing insects, beasts and birds,
and creatures that ride the waves in herds,
down the Mississippi basin and out to the world.
This phoenix-like maelstrom earth
in truth is but a shard of ashes and vapor,
for eons in labor,
to which the Midwest Sun gave birth.
We are the children of the Midwest Sun:
its light has weight, measured musical tones.
poem by Jay Mandeville
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Rice is all one but they are many ways of cooking it.
For The Happy Housemaid...
early morning
the housemaid turns on the radio
in full volume that the
neighbors know that
she is already awake
and cooking breakfast
the house smells fried
egg and bacon and
steamed rice
when i come out my room
she smiles and
turns off the radio and
says that breakfast is
ready
only to be told that
no one likes to eat breakfast
(unlike the two the housemaid
likes it much to eat all these matters
alone by herself,
she is attuned like a loud radio
early morning
and she does not mind what
the housemaids' neighbors say)
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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A zippy, Mrs. Claus in round glasses
Shopped around for some sorghum molasses
She eyed the sweet stuff close-up
In a clear measuring cup
Like the elves taught her in cooking classes.
quote by by Caryl Ramsdale
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There's something wrong with a mother who washes out a measuring cup with soap and water after she's only measured water in it.
quote by Erma Bombeck
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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If the lives of men can be measured in terms of years, ideologies in decades, and nations in centuries, then the unit measuring civilizations, born of the interaction among peoples, would be the millennium.
quote by Abdelaziz Bouteflika
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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I don't like gourmet cooking or ""this"" cooking or ""that"" cooking. I like good cooking.
quote by James Beard
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Depths Of Our Strength
The depths of our strength is not
Measured by who or how much we carry,
But simply our strength is Measured in how much we endure.
I believe that the weight of our trials,
Sufferings, and pain is transformed
When we begin to heal the wounds of Destruction
By changing the pattern of Life that has been rejected
For the advancement of knowing
That our souls cry Holy.
Be Blessed
poem by Gloria Dean Williams
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Land Of Dispute
Throughout the years, this fertile ground of all time
produce an abundant rice harvest
but when Cane and Nila had to be planted
with the laws and promises
a bundle of money
measure of welfare change
everything is measured by the amount of money in the bag
in the bank, and the stock trading
Money in the hands of farmers flows like spring water
Their time out to plant sugar cane and Nila
Time to be a little rice,
rice plants were molt
abundant harvest changed complaints
Their well-being such as inhaled
West wind,
disappeared
poem by Prasetya Utama
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I sometimes think the chef end of cooking is not the real end of cooking. Cooking is all about homes and gardens, it doesn't happen in restaurants.
quote by Delia Smith
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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My Own Worth
when you begin
to measure the length of my
worth
with a tape
or weigh me with
your own scales
or wrap me with your
cloth to asses the
volume of my being
when the numbers
come from your mouth
i begin to feel
the limitless bounds
of my incoming
protest
for you are just my peer
my co-equal
and here you are
measuring me by
your own
standards and i ask
the world:
who are you?
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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The Day I Hate Rice
The day I hate rice
Is several rare day in a year
When I don't eat rice
I don't want to eat rice
I don't want to see it
Because I hate its taste
And I hate to think about it
If I have the day I hate rice
Then you'll know that I don't feel well
I'm bored of this procession
I want to run from this life
Because I begin to hate myself
...just a little while
And everything will be back to normal again
That's the meaning of
The day I hate rice
poem by Maria Sudibyo
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Measure
are we measuring time
or is time measuring us?
how old is time? where is its
head and where's the tail?
its beginning if not the end?
does it go in a round or
in a straight path? does it
need space to realise
its own identity?
are we measuring time
or is time measuring us?
how old am i? where is the
head and tail of this state of
being, this consciousness?
is it longer than time? Is it as old
and large as the universe?
if everything becomes sterile
100 years on, earth will be
as quiet and red as mars
time as ever goes on, a
measure of the unviverse
will time be sleeping then
in the bossom of our consciousness?
or will we be sleeping in its bossom
instead, waiting to be resurrected,
a component of matter, of time?
a pendulum that goes to and fro,
to and fro, to help us get a grasp
of the universe and its workings
poem by John Tiong Chunghoo
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What I did was take the Jesus of the Gospels, the Son of God, the Son of the Virgin Mary, and sought to make Him utterly believable, a vital breathing character.
A German immersed in any civilization different from his own loses a weight equivalent in volume to the amount of intelligence he displaces.
quote by Jose Bergamin
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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