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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Related quotes
Porridge At The Pub
I had my breakfast this morning at a pub in our town,
But my experience there left my face with a massive frown.
I ordered some porridge, topped with banana and honey,
But, despite it being cheap, it was not worth the money.
With me, the bowlful of porridge was not a massive hit,
Because I found eating it, was like eating a bowlful of grit.
The oats and milk, I found, were far from very well mixed:
Though I'm sure this is a problem that can be easily fixed.
On top of that, I thought the porridge tasted a little bit weird,
So, by me, my bowlful of porridge didn't get totally cleared.
About my breakfast experience, I did not like to complain,
But I won't be eating porridge at that particular pub again.
poem by Angela Wybrow
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Porridge
Why is there no monument
To Porridge in our land?
It it's good enough to eat,
It's good enough to stand!
On a plinth in London
A statue we should see
Of Porridge made in Scotland
Signed, "Oatmeal, O.B.E."
(By a young dog of three)
poem by Spike Milligan
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His Life, a Porridge Pool
Sitting on a traditional stool
Starring, ripples in a pool
He stirred porridge with a wooden spoon
Ripples, cause of his spoon
Porridge, had become a pool
His life, a porridge pool.
poem by Charles Jagongo Ogola
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Dogtown
Okay.
The towns dawning, Im the only one awake.
The streets are whistling, I light my fourth cigarette.
I think of my friends, they were once not so dead.
What are they thinking now?
One day Ill be just a little stone,
Nobodyll know that the stone had such emotions.
Anyway, Im always on the run.
Someday Ill be remembered for the phone calls I never made,
Letters I never mailed,
And stories I never finished telling anyone.
The towns yawning, I let my dog walk me around.
He took a shoot and people smiled,
I tried the same and people frowned.
Yes, its a dog, dogtown.
One day lets be a pair of trees,
Nobodyll know that the trees had such a history.
Anyway, wed never be this lonely.
Someday Ill be remembered for the fine words I meant to keep,
A warm smile I meant to leave,
And a true song I meant to finish writing all my life.
Yes, its a dogtown, its a dogtown,
Yes, its a dogtown, its a dogtown.
Dog, dog, dog, dog, dog, dog, dog, dog, dogtown.
Peas porridge luck, peas porridge stuck,
Peas porridge in the pot nine years old.
Some gets paid, some gets grades,
Some stays in the pot nine years old.
Yes, its a dogtown, its a dogtown,
Yes, its a dogtown, its a dogtown.
Dog, dog, dog, dog, dog, dog, dog, dog, dogtown.
Peas porridge loved, peas porridge spoiled,
Peas porridge in the pot nine years old.
Some gets laid, some gets slayed,
Some stays in the pot nine years old.
Yes, its a dogtown, its a dogtown,
Yes, its a dogtown, its a dogtown.
Dog, dog, dog, dog, dog, dog, dog, dog, dogtown.
Dogtown, dogtown, dogtown, dogtown,
Dogtown, dogtown, dogtown -.
song performed by by Yoko Ono
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Dogtown
Okay.
The towns dawning, Im the only one awake.
The streets are whistling, I light my fourth cigarette.
I think of my friends, they were once not so dead.
What are they thinking now?
One day Ill be just a little stone,
Nobodyll know that the stone had such emotions.
Anyway, Im always on the run.
Someday Ill be remembered for the phone calls I never made,
Letters I never mailed,
And stories I never finished telling anyone.
The towns yawning, I let my dog walk me around.
He took a shoot and people smiled,
I tried the same and people frowned.
Yes, its a dog, dogtown.
One day lets be a pair of trees,
Nobodyll know that the trees had such a history.
Anyway, wed never be this lonely.
Someday Ill be remembered for the fine words I meant to keep,
A warm smile I meant to leave,
And a true song I meant to finish writing all my life.
Yes, its a dogtown, its a dogtown,
Yes, its a dogtown, its a dogtown.
Dog, dog, dog, dog, dog, dog, dog, dog, dogtown.
Peas porridge luck, peas porridge stuck,
Peas porridge in the pot nine years old.
Some gets paid, some gets grades,
Some stays in the pot nine years old.
Yes, its a dogtown, its a dogtown,
Yes, its a dogtown, its a dogtown.
Dog, dog, dog, dog, dog, dog, dog, dog, dogtown.
Peas porridge loved, peas porridge spoiled,
Peas porridge in the pot nine years old.
Some gets laid, some gets slayed,
Some stays in the pot nine years old.
Yes, its a dogtown, its a dogtown,
Yes, its a dogtown, its a dogtown.
Dog, dog, dog, dog, dog, dog, dog, dog, dogtown.
Dogtown, dogtown, dogtown, dogtown,
Dogtown, dogtown, dogtown -.
song performed by by Yoko Ono
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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The Cook: A Tribute To Bibhu Padhi
The cook knows
that his shadow
burns in the fire.
Turmeric fragrance drives
hungry crocodiles away
from the greenroom.
While cooking himself
the cook discovers
that each fire has its own inscription.
You know how profound
the fire is, how much
it demands from life.
Cooking is self-cooking,
discovery of fire-roses
getting wiser in the soul of a bird.
poem by Rudra Kinshuk
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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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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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Gourmet vs the Usual
a good food and a good drink
seven days a week
I wouldn't ask for more
I'll just eat with love and won't get bored
I tried cooking my own food
following mom’s recipe
but it didn’t taste exactly as
when mom’s the one cooking
Oh, I realized
I couldn't buy in the store
an ingredient mom has when cooking a food
I couldn't buy love and patience
in the fresh market or in any grocery
poem by Champs Ulysses Cabinatan
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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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Excerpt –
'This famous wicked little tale
Should never have been put on sale
It is a mystery to me
Why loving parents cannot see
That this is actually a book
About a brazen little crook...'
'...Now just imagine how you'd feel
If you had cooked a lovely meal,
Delicious porridge, steaming hot,
Fresh coffee in the coffee pot,
With maybe toast and marmalade,
The table beautifully laid,
One place for you and one for dad,
Another for your little lad.
Then dad cries, 'Golly–gosh! Gee whizz!
'Oh cripes! How hot this porridge is!
'Let's take a walk along the street
'Until it's cool enough to eat.'
He adds, 'An early morning stroll
'Is good for people on the whole.
'It makes your appetite improve
'It also helps your bowels move.'
No proper wife would dare to question
Such a sensible suggestion,
Above all not at breakfast–time
When men are seldom at their prime.
No sooner are you down the road
Than Goldilocks, that little toad
That nosey thieving little louse,
Comes sneaking in your empty house....'
'...(Here comes the next catastrophe.)
Most educated people choose
To rid themselves of socks and shoes
Before they clamber into bed.
But Goldie didn't give a shred.
Her filthy shoes were thick with grime,
And mud and mush and slush and slime.
Worse still, upon the heel of one
Was something that a dog had done.
I say once more, what would you think
If all this horrid dirt and stink
Was smeared upon your eiderdown
By this revolting little clown?
(The famous story has no clues
To show the girl removed her shoes.)
Oh, what a tale of crime on crime!
Let's check it for a second time.
Crime One, the prosecution's case:
She breaks and enters someone's place.
Crime Two, the prosecutor notes:
She steals a bowl of porridge oats.
Crime Three: She breaks a precious chair
Belonging to the Baby Bear.
Crime Four: She smears each spotless sheet
With filthy messes from her feet.
A judge would say without a blink,
'Ten years hard labour in the clink!'
But in the book, as you will see,
The little beast gets off scot–free,
While tiny children near and far
Shout 'Goody–good! Hooray! Hurrah!'
'Poor darling Goldilocks!' they say,
'Thank goodness that she got away!'
Myself, I think I'd rather send
Young Goldie to a sticky end.
'Oh daddy!' cried the Baby Bear,
'My porridge gone! It isn't fair!'
'Then go upstairs,' the Big Bear said,
'Your porridge is upon the bed.
'But as it's inside mademoiselle,
'You'll have to eat her up as well.'
poem by Roald Dahl
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Collected Verses On Cooking
1 To brew is to welcome Aurora
Who sets in to bless us prime
Coffee, tea all first global law
2 Battered are idli, dosa, vada, chutney
Mouth to stomach breaking the fast
For a choice light, just pongal simply
3 To lunch means a gourmet meals
Sweet and sour all curries to savor
Ofcourse with rice to doze on day-dreams
4 Tea time is cracking snack time
Frying's heavy albeit eating's light
Need a choice light, just brewing alone sublime
5 Boiling, baking, broiling, brewing, blending
Chopping, poaching, grilling, grinding, pressured
A day's roasted, toasted journey is cooking
6 Free time means vegetable-gtocery-buying
Selecting, bargaining should be of select quality
Dinner or supper, add to the leftover simple cooking
7 Tasty dishes, dirty vessels- cleaning starts
Machine or maid pain in the neck often
Patience punctured by irate sleepy syllables
8 Cooking is a day's long journey strenuous
Trucked burnt by smoky kitchen sweating
No way but yes as hunger recurs in cycles
poem by Indira Renganathan
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Johannesburg
There are mini-bus taxis everywhere
hooting, swerving, stopping anywhere
and people on the street
shouting to each other
as if they are not
in talking distance,
but as if everybody is deaf.
Some hawkers are selling
sweets, cigarettes and newspapers
while others are cooking maize,
porridge and eggs.
Youngsters stand next to
parking meters showing
open parking spaces
and demanding money
to watch vehicles parked there.
Some hobos sleep
in tattered blankets
and smell of wine
and liquor and the sick
sweet odour or retching.
Prostitutes walk up and down
street corners in mini skirts
and t-shirts
with nipples showing through
and have hello smiles
plastered across their faces.
Some gum sniffing children
beg at traffic lights
with twisted arms and legs
and other beggars
have posters wishing you well
or telling you to go to hell.
People queue in lines
waiting for busses
and some stand smoking
while they talk
and businessmen, lawyers,
soldiers, secretaries
are walking quickly past
with briefcases, satchels,
and handbags
and on the sidewalk
there is urine,
blood, vomit, some rotting food
and smoked cigarettes
and everywhere signs
of a city in a country
that is falling apart.
poem by Gert Strydom
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I cook everything. I love Mediterranean cooking, I love Asian cooking. I do lots of Japanese noodles.
The Farmer's Wife
From the hodge porridge
of their country lust,
their local life in Illinois,
where all their acres look
like a sprouting broom factory,
they name just en years now
that she has been his habit;
as again tonight he'll say
honey bunch let's go
and she will not say how there
must be more to living
than this brief bright bridge
of the raucous bed or even
the slow braille touch of him
like a heavy god grown light,
that old pantomime of love
that she wants although
it leaves her still alone,
built back again at last,
mind's apart from him, living
her own self in her own words
and hating the sweat of the house
they keep when they finally lie
each in separate dreams
and then how she watches him,
still strong in the blowzy bag
of his usual sleep while
her young years bungle past
their same marriage bed
and she wishes him cripple, or poet,
or even lonely, or sometimes,
better, my lover, dead.
poem by Anne Sexton
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Doll's House
The music comes on with the lights,
the little opera of emptiness begins, the little
dance of no one there —
just the rooms exhibited,
furniture in them like ideas,
a stage set waiting for action out of the blue.
But no,
even the fire in the hearth is neon, warms no one,
the drawers in the painted chests,
are filled with nothing,
the tables loaded with miniature, fake, repasts.
It’s night outside, about to snow, the dollhouse lights are on:
you’re in the dark,
watching the dollhouse like a thief,
pilfering its pockets for a clue to your own life,
wafted over by smells of cooking, and silence.
Inside the dark
a flute starts to play, imaginary people come in at the door:
invited to stay, they take off their coats,
tea is made in a miniature pot — oh,
it’s good I hear you say, let’s have crumpets too, and we put them on,
you and I, they’re almost crumbs but we toast them,
and what kind of jam do you want, I say, on top of the butter,
and you say raspberry,
and I give it to you, reader,
I give it to you and we both eat.
Outside the big house it’s snowing.
Applied frost creeps up the sides of the doll house windows,
the fake fireplace glows electric,
our toy dog sleeps on the rug —
a hush falls over this small house inside the big house,
we sleep in it…
I sleep, you sleep, he sleeps, she sleeps…
it sleeps, the real,
a sleep so delicious, we can dream in it,
as in a delirium, without sound…
windows opening into windows,
shoes never walked in at the door
that we slip on.
poem by Ioanna Carlsen
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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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Preparing Dinner
I watch the pot on the stove
Water is overspilling
The rice is cooking
With bubbles galore
I smother chicken in sauce
Sauce that is made up of green pepper, black pepper and onions
Accompanied with that is the All in one spice.
Watch out for the toilet paper
The spices start talking
The chicken gets fried
The smell of breyani echoes through the house
I chop the potatoes as well as the carrots
I open up McCain veggies
And distribute it with the food
I put more spices in and the McCain veggies
Gets assimilated into the food
The pot is filled with colours
The steam fills the house
The brown chicken starts talking to the yellow potatoes
So does the carrots
The rice is strained
It rises to the core
I use tastic rice
Because it is the best out of them all
I set the table with plates
And it is ready to be filled
One by one they get dished out
First the rice (centered) and then the potatoes and chicken
Ice cream is served as desert
Coca-Cola is poured into glasses
The sweet taste bubbles in my mouth
The hot food burns my mouth
While the cold drink soothes its pain
I smother tomatoes and onions with vinegar
And serve them next to the food
The sauce gives the tongue extra kick
And goes down with a good drink
poem by Lee John Siebritz
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I get quite lazy about cooking because when I come back from work it is the last thing I want to do, really is spend loads of time cooking.
quote by Prince William
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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