I am but
A conduit in this world,
A portal to the nether realm
Where culinary ideals lurk
Foisted upon this world
By meager minds
And stronger stomachs,
An instinct we have honed
Since time immemorial.
Join me in this kitchen, won’t you?
The purchase of this can
The work I did to earn
The money to put on the counter
That is slide across, slipped into a tray
Exchanged for this good
Exchanged for services.
So much sodium
In one rectangle,
That it makes my throat dry,
The jalapeño smell
with my truffle salt
Hits my nose
Like the fake meat.
The can sits
Watching me on the windowsill
My guardian
My angel
My protector
Never fading
Never dying.
Even in my darkest hour
When my hunger reigns
And my mind falters
And I stumble through the kitchen
Heart rent askew by the night
The humble can remains.
I light the stove
Pour oil
Onions, garlic, peppers,
Cut down into cubes.
The sizzle as they hit the pan
Soothes my soul as I cut the meat-cube.
Pink flesh wriggles
As it slides across the cutting board
To fall into the pan.
More seasonings
More oil,
The careful movement of the pan
Seeking equilibrium
In the chaotic fire underneath.
Water boils
Cheap rice noodles,
Sold in cakes
And cracked in half,
Thrown into water
Seasoned with garlic
And curry powder
And black pepper, ground fresh.
The smell hits my nose
Like a tidal wave.
Salivation,
Need,
Hunger.
It begins to boil.
The meat begins to sizzle in the pan,
Small chunks burnt and glazed.
I scrape,
Fond torn away from its home
To mix into my creation.
Let no aspect of this meal,
Of this worship,
Escape
The vortex of my stomach.
My foot taps impatiently,
The smell turning my sensory receptors up to overdrive,
Each moment without
The delicious meat
Sliding down my ferverous gullet
Is a moment wasted in the time between meals
I hunger
Like a beast chained in the dark
My eyes wide and unbidden,
To stare and seek and need
Like nothing you have ever met before.
I am the eidolon of my own needs,
The rubicon of my own sustenance.
To buy this cann’d meat
Is an act of sacred self-love.
I pile the meal
From pan to pot to plate,
Preparing.
Water streams forth to clean my tools.
I soap and dry them,
Their task done, their mission complete
Alighting them to their correct home
On the racks and shelves.
The meal is ready.
I sit
At the table,
Legs crossed,
Running my fingers across the silverware.
I can see each element,
Carefully burnt to the point
Of highest crunch
With highest flavor
And perfect texture.
My spoon slides forth
Cupping noodles and salty meat
The cubes crispy and moist with oil.
I slip it
Into my mouth
And chew.
An explosion of flavor rocks my palate,
And I am in bliss.
I can feel salt drip down my throat
As I grin and chew and swallow.
What else is there to life
When this simple act
And this simple pleasure
Is wont
To defile me?
Avalon Valentine
Spam Slam
I am but
A conduit in this world,
A portal to the nether realm
Where culinary ideals lurk
Foisted upon this world
By meager minds
And stronger stomachs,
An instinct we have honed
Since time immemorial.
Join me in this kitchen, won’t you?
The purchase of this can
The work I did to earn
The money to put on the counter
That is slide across, slipped into a tray
Exchanged for this good
Exchanged for services.
So much sodium
In one rectangle,
That it makes my throat dry,
The jalapeño smell
with my truffle salt
Hits my nose
Like the fake meat.
The can sits
Watching me on the windowsill
My guardian
My angel
My protector
Never fading
Never dying.
Even in my darkest hour
When my hunger reigns
And my mind falters
And I stumble through the kitchen
Heart rent askew by the night
The humble can remains.
I light the stove
Pour oil
Onions, garlic, peppers,
Cut down into cubes.
The sizzle as they hit the pan
Soothes my soul as I cut the meat-cube.
Pink flesh wriggles
As it slides across the cutting board
To fall into the pan.
More seasonings
More oil,
The careful movement of the pan
Seeking equilibrium
In the chaotic fire underneath.
Water boils
Cheap rice noodles,
Sold in cakes
And cracked in half,
Thrown into water
Seasoned with garlic
And curry powder
And black pepper, ground fresh.
The smell hits my nose
Like a tidal wave.
Salivation,
Need,
Hunger.
It begins to boil.
The meat begins to sizzle in the pan,
Small chunks burnt and glazed.
I scrape,
Fond torn away from its home
To mix into my creation.
Let no aspect of this meal,
Of this worship,
Escape
The vortex of my stomach.
My foot taps impatiently,
The smell turning my sensory receptors up to overdrive,
Each moment without
The delicious meat
Sliding down my ferverous gullet
Is a moment wasted in the time between meals
I hunger
Like a beast chained in the dark
My eyes wide and unbidden,
To stare and seek and need
Like nothing you have ever met before.
I am the eidolon of my own needs,
The rubicon of my own sustenance.
To buy this cann’d meat
Is an act of sacred self-love.
I pile the meal
From pan to pot to plate,
Preparing.
Water streams forth to clean my tools.
I soap and dry them,
Their task done, their mission complete
Alighting them to their correct home
On the racks and shelves.
The meal is ready.
I sit
At the table,
Legs crossed,
Running my fingers across the silverware.
I can see each element,
Carefully burnt to the point
Of highest crunch
With highest flavor
And perfect texture.
My spoon slides forth
Cupping noodles and salty meat
The cubes crispy and moist with oil.
I slip it
Into my mouth
And chew.
An explosion of flavor rocks my palate,
And I am in bliss.
I can feel salt drip down my throat
As I grin and chew and swallow.
What else is there to life
When this simple act
And this simple pleasure
Is wont
To defile me?