Sharp With Added Spice
'Over seasoned! '
This came to spill,
From whispered lips.
Yet to those unacquainted...
The presentation and taste,
Was more than appreciated.
And in their eyes the show of this,
Did not hesitate to express it.
They did not mention an absence of skill.
They were too busy enjoying the delicious cake.
To pick crumbs from plates.
Until the cook appeared unexplained,
From the kitchen to gain attention.
Sharp with added spice,
Comes a lashing from an unexpected tongue.
It seems someone has said,
Whoever is doing the cooking with minimal flair...
Should learn more about baking,
To become more aware of what's required instead!
And serious was the cook who took all hostage!
With an eyebrow raised and quivering lips.
And outraged was the cook's posture...
No one dared to dismiss.
~Out with it!
WHO said 'over seasoned'?
I heard every word.
And it did not please.
WHO was it?
Who dared to say I over season?
When I sweated to perfect...
A guarantee your taste buds would be teased.
Out with it or no one leaves.
You ungrateful banana eating chimpanzees.
How dare you mock my expertise.
I'm not kidding.
Out with it or no one leaves! ~
And throats slowly swallowed.
People froze as they sat.
Wishing they remembered when,
Those comments were made in jest!
'I said that but I was just joking.'
~You provoked me with a whispered joke?
Do you know how close I came to choking a few throats?
I...
Am,
A CHEF.
And serious to the end of my very breath.
With...
And I must admit this,
With a flair for dramatics.
Please...
There is no need for applause.
I accept,
Only business references! ~
poem by Lawrence S. Pertillar
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Related quotes
Cooking and taste
eating the same tasteless dinner at the only diner
the umpteenth time, a thought came to my mind
am i a guinea pig or one of its kind
or was there a conspiracy behind
has my taste buds gone out of date
why is all so tasteless, that is the food i ate
i dared to ask the manager why the taste is so bad
bang came a caustic reply, this is by the best cook he ever had
(insinuating a problem not with his cook but with my taste)
well then it has to be my taste buds i thought
directing all my efforts to the food i had bought
then came storming, the savior, inside the hall
in his hand was the same food for which i have taken the fall
indignanlty he shouted at the manager
this food is so bad that even his dog had refused to had
hell i thought even the dog has a better taste
why, why am i such a waste
the dog in me forced me to start cooking that very day
the dog in me does sometimes refuses to eat what i cook
the human in me requests him to hav another look
for, when people are struggling for one square meal a day
how can i keep the food i cooked at bay,
hence i eat, taste or no taste, everything i cook, every day.
Alankar (Decor) -30
Kitchen clash (Double Rondeau)
How difficult it is to cook
In hot summer how a wife to cook
'Take rest, shall buy food from outside'
He says with concern on her side
Wife is happy she need not cook
Happy so life runs like a brook
Variety food, pleased they look
Seasoned hot, they know kitchen's stride
How difficult
Time in hand changed is her outlook
Changed is also her old cook-look
Styleless to stylish in set glide
Makes her new with glow to her pride
She can speak on her strife to cook
How difficult
How difficult but back a cook?
Daughter visits with siren look
There, stirs in dad's heart a high tide
Sneaks'cooking has been set aside
These days mom does not at all cook'
Enough for her to word and hook
Daughter counsels mom back to cook
To be in shifty husband's stride
How difficult!
Luck is but a wheel in life-book
So such a wife can't overlook
And mom vows never to abide
Honeyed words but put them aside
Blamed wife telling herself 'to cook
How difficult! '
poem by Indira Renganathan
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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~~~The Chef~~~
Saucy as the tang of Chili...
...Warmed as gingers heated groans-
Taste delight of Curry to the palate...
...Sweet as Honey Bees, to their drones...
Sirens scented journey-
Into aroma's of London Town...
Satisfied a billowing hunger...
Placed a smile and erased a frown...
Courted with Heavenly Manna-
Ushered in, by taste buds sweet...
Raised and baked in sheer splendour-
Temperature of ovens complete!
In the kitchen of attractions wonder-
Sizzles a Chef So Supreme...
Seasoned and hand crafted taste delight
He's todays: 'Cream De La Cream'
Ordinary cook, no never? !
Naturally adept at La Cuisine...
Evermore shall he create...
Succulent, saucy, dreams...
Watch: Take Home Chef
TLC, Weekdays
4: 00 P.M. Eastern
Dedicated to:
Chef: Curtis Stone
poem by Theodora Onken
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Servent Cook
mother
Cook
with love...
father
Cook
With taste...
Brother
Cook...
With enjoy...
sister
Cook
Simply fine...
Servent
Cook
A boor...
A woor...
poem by Otteri Selvakumar
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Regardless Of Whose Oven Is Used
Unfamiliar lips kissed,
And impatient...
May never find anyone,
Wishing for more of that...
Than a pawing done to pick,
A preference.
For the purpose to warm up some heat.
To please a required taste.
Regardless of whose oven is used,
Or what it takes for the cook,
To know who shows a more personalized appreciation.
poem by Lawrence S. Pertillar
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Cook Of The House
Ground rice, sugar, vinegar, seco salt, macaroni too,
Cook of the house,
Im the cook of the house.
No matter where I serve my guests,
They seem to like the kitchen best cause Im the cook of the house,
Cook of the house.
The salads in the bowl,
The rice is on the stove.
Green beans in the colander and where the res is heaven only knows.
Cinnamon, garlic, salt, pepper, corn-bread, curry powder, coffee too,
Cook of the house,
Im the cook of the house.
No, matter where I serve my guests,
They seem to like the kitchen best.
cause Im the cook of the house,
Cook of the house.
Where the rest is heaven only knows.
Matter where I serve my guests,
They seem to like the kitchen best cause Im the cook of the house.
Cook of the house,
Cook of the house,
Im the cook of the house.
song performed by by Paul McCartney
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Those Scoops Of Soup
Once it has been discovered,
Who's pot you've been dipping to get...
Those scoops of soup,
Served to your guests.
It is going to be very hard to convince anyone,
That cook you had fired from the kitchen...
Is not as qualified as you profess.
And you may not be aware of this...
But a great cook,
Seldom leaves recipes behind.
Not those originating from an inventive mind.
And a great cook...
Has no problems finding,
Those who are seeking something better...
They know will stay with them that is craved.
poem by Lawrence S. Pertillar
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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My Trip Seasonings
My Trip Seasonings
My hands are but extensions to my brain
Where i prepare my food
Seasoned with trip spices and oh..sweat..(LOL)
Dramas are made by onions
As tears flow down to my nose and mouth
And see my detractors yelling at me
And yes, seasoned by anchovies and other shrimp and fish
Ginger are but vexations to the soul
Where one touches base and find its center
Leading me on to my weakened state
Of womanhood and finds strength in my mate..Aha!
Olives, basil leaves, raisins
Are reserved to more foreign tongues
As i vowed to myself
To stick to the basics, aside from salt, pepper and sugar
As mandatory elements
To keep the fire from burning
These are as i say 'haven'
To my neophyte taste buds
Other wise. i would salivate
Like a hungry dog over a bone
With or without my trip seasoning
Last but not the least
I prefer eggs as binder
Without which as in some cases
Renders your work done
Note: On my attempt to be a nice cook in the kitchen..He he
thanks for any wild reactions and comment
poem by Meggie Gultiano
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Are you kidding? I'm a terrible cook, but John is a really great one. Literally, I never cook. The whole time we were dating, I prepared two officially romantic meals. Both of them were such disasters that he begs me never to go into the kitchen again.
quote by Rebecca Romijn
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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When a Readiness Is Set to Deliver
Two people may begin to cook,
What looks to be the same thing.
And to those witnessing,
It may be observed to be that way.
Even though a presentation,
Has yet to be made!
But one who is familiar,
And knows what is required...
To get 'that' desired taste.
Will know it is the ingredients used,
To seduce with just the right flavor.
And making mistakes is what it takes.
And there is a difference between...
The ease by which something seen,
Seems to be done.
And the experience by one,
Who knows...
When a readiness is set to deliver.
And no time sooner...
Than that!
poem by Lawrence S. Pertillar
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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An eternity to get to the right taste, smell
at last it is cooked
and in perfect state
taste and smell
to be served to the Lord
and ho my god, everybody is
enlightened, me, the angels
and of course the king
it takes almost an eternity to cook
he puts the perfect piece in his mouth
and wow his eyes almost pop out
ours too
after the 10th piece of the glory
he says he really longs for that first perfect
which melts his soul
'anymore? ' he asks
'that's the purpose of that piece, ' we say
'for perfect remembrance.
to be cherished at heart. it
took us 50 years to cook.'
poem by John Tiong Chunghoo
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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My Recipe
For love I design the name of wondrous nature,
I love its wondrous age, the animal inside;
Offering a man his peeling of fruit and vegetables,
A cook is designing new food for heavy consumption.
The cooking is simple, and plates are filled with heaven-
On that is regard for taste, on this is peace and bliss.
Joke on him, the big chef, who dearly paid for mistakes,
Oiling the pan with more food and spreading special
Ingredients, like there was an illegal clue
Of beauty.
I love that recipe, that wondrous name that smelt of heaven.
poem by Naveed Akram
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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A Taste of Artistic Temper
Just because I write,
Don't think I'm lightweight on my toes.
A few got that confused...
And found themselves with bloodied noses!
My father taught me how to box,
And my mother taught me to play baseball...
Which I played a lot and enjoyed!
I didn't find myself into the creative arts...
It found me.
Some folks think I'm delusional.
Until they get a taste of artistic temper!
And it can switch from hot to cold.
Oh...
I love to cook,
And prepare my body for any type of touch!
Invitation only...of course!
I hate to be rude to anyone left outside knocking!
It adds too much flair to the dramatics,
I've already setup and prepared!
'Hello...
Welcome to my moment! '
poem by Lawrence S. Pertillar
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Nibbles Abandoned On Picked Over Plates
Do people honestly care who initiated their ability,
To continue eating at a feast?
Since some who have come to munch,
Have desires to have their selections chosen...
By placing them out in front,
To 'try' to duplicate what others obviously appreciate.
The only time people express concern,
Is when it is believed...
Fewer people are eating up all the selected treats.
And it is assumed one chef has been favored...
Because it seems as if this one chef,
Has secret recipes that teases a choice for many to eat.
And it is suspected there is a cheating...
To make those unbeatable delicious treats,
The ones preferred by those who eat them.
No matter what the grade of taste the others are given.
Or the nibbles abandoned on picked over plates,
Given undeserved ratings for being great although mediocre.
poem by Lawrence S. Pertillar
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Like None Other Can Produce
I've been both on top and on the bottom,
And have witnessed those mediocre...
Perform with pretentions to get attention.
Believing to get noticed,
Will aid in their feelings of self worth.
But if one truly is connected to self,
And appreciates the ownership of an identity...
It matters not,
Who decides who should deliver what to whom...
To have it expressed and rated.
It will still achieve a quality like none other can produce.
Regardless where in the kitchen it is placed,
It will still be sought after...
For the taste it satisfies.
And that is why the texture of the mix can not be replicated.
Only a knowing 'chef' not just a 'cook' does this!
poem by Lawrence S. Pertillar
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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May I Have Another Helping of Those Delicious Critics, Please?
What do I have to say,
To those who are my critics?
I have been aware of them,
Since I began taking my first steps.
Since my first breath taken...
Was done independently.
I've heard it said,
My lifetime of actions...
By them has been disapproved.
And things I do have been ego led.
It's believed what I do,
Is done to seek attention.
Even those things I do to cleanse,
In privacy...
I care not mention.
We all have talents,
And those gifts that are given.
How I use the ones I have...
Aren't from a critic's invention.
Or maybe because of the creation of 'them'.
Who knows?
Perhaps that's what has them upset.
And if they have time like that to waste...
Don't hesitate in delay to say,
I am just getting started.
And what I've given to them to nibble...
Is just a little taste.
From a baking not completed,
Yet imaginations rate!
They have no idea,
Of who I am!
Or the making of 'me'.
And-what-that-takes!
Since I'm the cooker who does the feeding...
I know who eats!
And those served,
That ate.
Those who choose to regurgitate...
Do it without my decision given to make!
What do I have to say,
To those who are my critics?
I do admire their efforts,
But...
What's there is there for them to digest.
I'm not about to give up my peace,
Or my mind for them to test.
My eyes are clear,
And focused on my progress.
Not on things that I've done.
For purposes to keep manifested,
The days I spent in my youth...
Doing things to shock and stun,
Just for the 'hell' of having devilish fun.
Although I must admit,
There is 'something' about controversy...
That appetites my palate much more than just a bit.
'Excuse me...
I know I shouldn't.
Since I am here by invitation.
But,
May I have another helping of those delicious critics,
Please?
I can not believe they could be this delicious.
What have these critics been mixed with? '
poem by Lawrence S. Pertillar
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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I'd love to learn to cook. I think the ladies like a guy who can cook. Also, there are lots of available ladies at cooking classes. Can you tell I'm single?
quote by Will Estes
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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From Seats to Feet
A style that brings the people,
From seats to feet...
Is something that isn't easily done.
Especially if more than a few are pleased.
This is a skill of a master,
Unmasked.
And more than any other,
Who has crafted a task.
And it...
Takes a chef to know just how to bake a cake.
It takes a chef to know just how to bake a cake.
Yes it,
Takes a chef to know just how to bake a cake.
To whip a cake to taste takes more than a...
Shake and bake!
A style that brings the people,
From seats to feet...
Is something that isn't easily done.
This is a skill of a master,
Unmasked.
And more than any other,
Who has crafted a task.
And it...
Takes a chef to know just how to bake a cake.
It takes a chef to know just how to bake a cake.
Yes it,
Takes a chef to know just how to bake a cake.
To whip a cake to taste takes more than a...
Shake and bake!
No need to ask a master what is the task.
When people move from seats to feet,
They've been razz-a-ma-tazzed.
And it...
Takes a chef to know just how to bake a cake.
It takes a chef to know just how to bake a cake.
Yes it,
Takes a chef to know just how to bake a cake.
To whip a cake to taste takes more than a...
Shake and bake!
poem by Lawrence S. Pertillar
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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The secret is to cook the aubergines the day before and let them dry of all the oil they drank in cooking. When you cook aubergine, they eat a lot of oil. It can be very heavy.
quote by Nana Mouskouri
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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My Chinee Cook
They who say the bush is dull are not so very far astray,
For this eucalyptic cloisterdom is anything but gay;
But its uneventful dulness I contentedly could brook,
If I only could get back my lost, lamented Chinee cook.
We had tried them without number—cooks, to wit—my wife and I;
One a week, then three a fortnight, as my wife can testify;
But at last we got the right one; I may say 'twas by a fluke,
For he dropped in miscellaneous-like, that handy Chinee cook,
He found the kitchen empty, laid his swag down, and commenced;
My wife, surprised, found nothing to say anything against;
But she asked him for how much a year the work he undertook—
“Me workee for me ration,” said that noble Chinee cook.
Then right off from next to nothing such a dinner he prepared,
That the Governor I'm certain less luxuriously fared;
And he waited, too, in spotless white, with such respectful look,
And bowed his head when grace was said, that pious Chinee cook.
He did the work of man and maid—made beds and swept out rooms;
Nor cooled he in his zeal, as is the manner of new brooms:
Oh, he shed celestial brightness on the most sequestered nook,
For his mop and pail were everywhere—my cleanly Chinee cook.
We got fat upon his cooking; we were happy in those days,
For he tickled up our palates in a thousand pleasant ways.
Oh his dinners! Oh his dinners! they were fit for any duke!
Oh delectable Mongolian! Oh celestial Chinee cook!
There was nothing in creation that he didn't put to use,
And the less he got to cook with, all the more he could produce,
All nature was his kitchen range, likewise his cook'ry book—
Neither Soyer nor Meg Dod could teach that knowing Chinee cook.
And day by day upon my wife and me the mystery grew,
How his virtues were so many and his earnings were so few;
And we laid our heads together to find out by hook or crook,
The secret of the cheapness of that priceless Chinee cook.
And still the sense of mystery grew on us day by day,
Till it came to be a trouble, and we wished him well away;
But we could not find a fault in one so far above rebuke—
Ah, we didn't know the value of that valuable cook.
But one day when I was out he brought my wife a lot of things,
Turquoise earrings, opal bracelets, ruby brooches, diamond rings,
And he ran their various prices o'er as glibly as a book,
And dirt cheap, too, were the jewels of that jewel of a cook.
I returned, and just in time to stop the purchase of the lot,
And to ask him where on earth those costly jewels he had got,
And when I looked him in the face, good gracious how he shook!
And he says, says he, “Me bought him”—did that trembling Chinee cook.
And I a justice of the peace! O Fortune! how unkind!
For a certain Sydney robbery came rushing to my mind
“You bought them! Ah, I fear me, John, you paid them with a hook!
I am bound to apprehend you, oh unhappy Chinee cook!”
So the mystery was solved at length; the secret now we saw;
John had used us as a refuge from the clutches of the law;
And, now, alas, too late would I his frailty overlook!
He is gone, and I am left without my skilful Chinee cook.
Oh, could I taste again of those delicious luscious things,
I could pardon him the robbery of other people's rings;
I exaggerated principle, my duty I mistook,
When I handed over to the law my peerless Chinee cook.
What would I give just now for one of his superb ragouts,
His entrements, his entrées, his incomparable stews?
Oh, art and taste and piquancy my happy board forsook,
When I came the J.P. over my lamented Chinee cook.
Take away the hated letters. 'Twas my “justice” robbed my “peace”;
Take my name from the commission, and my matchless cook release.
But I fear my Johnny's dead, for I am haunted by a spook,
With oblique eyes and a pigtail, like my lost, my Chinee cook.
poem by James Brunton Stephens
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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