Deal breaker

IMG_3265 They met online, a dating site
And texted well into the night
Each thought the other seemed all right
And so a plan was made

To meet in person face to face
At somewhere safe, a neutral space
A restaurant seemed just the place
And dinner plans were laid

He saw her first, across the room
As interest, sparked began to bloom
Her apprehension, his inner gloom
Were swept away post haste

The sommelier presented wine
He tasted, and pronounced it fine
They settled in to chat and dine
Conversation, flirtily laced

He boldly ordered oysters, shucked
And wondered if he’d pushed his luck
When with casual aplomb, she plucked
One from his shell to taste

Their entrees came, they shared the quail
Filet mignon and lobster tail
The courtship dance was in full sail
The fire in full burn

She proffered her sweet, a crème brulee
Which he declined and waved away
She looked at him with great dismay
His fortunes sharply turned

She left him sitting in his chair
Gave him money for her share
Flounced out, leaving him to stare
What happened at this meal?

He texted, asking what went wrong
Expected to hear the same old song
His answer came before too long
Twas “No dessert, no deal”

Toutons

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Dough has risen, loaves are made
A little bit leftover, saved
For next day’s breakfast plate

Dough is formed in smaller rounds
Cooked in butter, golden brown
Appetites to sate

Dough pillows are then cut in two
More butter spread, a bit will do
Molasses or a some jam

Dough that’s fried to start the day
Traditional Newfoundlanders’ way
A touton fan I am

Trout Fishing

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I’m quite taken with this nonnet business, so the form is making its second appearance as we head into the second half of National Poetry Writing Month. Tonight’s topic, fishing, was inspired by the sound of the peepers as we walked the dogs tonight.

Chorus of peepers orchestrates dusk
Raccoon waddles to water’s edge
Mournful loons call over pond
Sun casts red-orange glow
Fireflies light path
Fishing creel full
Pan sizzles
Frying
Trout

Lobster Mac ‘n’ Cheese, please!

Lobster Mac n Cheese Collage

Best thing about writing a food poem daily is that I eat daily. So if I’m not hit by a bolt of genius, I can fall back on what I had for supper.

It’s getting late, I cannot wait
I’d like my supper on my plate

Grate the cheese, if you please
As the lobster meat I squeeze

Cook the noodles, don’t need oodles
There’s no time for drawing doodles

It’s getting late I cannot wait
I want my supper on my plate

In the dish the noodles squish
As I fulfill my dinner wish

Lobster in, for the win
Next the cooking can begin

It’s getting late I cannot wait
I need my supper on my plate

Cream and cheese, stirred in with ease
Breadcrumb topping, that will please

Oven bake, browned crust to make
Very soon I can partake

It’s getting late but no more wait
I have my supper on my plate!

Smoked Meat Sandwich

SmokedMeat

My great inspiration for a verse tonight is just what I had for supper. Which was smoked meat, so, nothing overly inspired. But what was inspired was a song that our former neighbour Jen once wrote about a smoked meat sandwich that I made, and I wish I could remember all the words. Jen’s now a wonderful yoga reiki life coach happiness person in Montreal, and as Montreal IS the home of the BEST smoked meat sandwiches, that is wonderfully, happily, fitting.
Go ahead! Visit her virtual home here and ask her about the smoked meat sandwich song yourself!

Choose your bread, it must be rye
Marble, dark or light
Pumperknickel in a pinch
But never wheat or white

Selection of the mustard type
Is of great import indeed
Dijon’s good, grainy’s best
To taste the mustard seed

Sauerkraut, piled up on high
For tangy taste of brine
And for a special added touch
I layer cheese on mine

Smoked meat steamed til warm and then
Prepare to meet your maker
‘Cause smoked meat ‘wich craft tends to make
me less giver than taker.

The Shape of Burger

Finally getting what seems to be real spring weather, and with it, the aroma of barbecue begins to waft down the street. And as much as we grill steaks, or ribs, or chicken, there’s nothing beats the old favourite hamburger. (Actually, nothing beats having my niece here to visit, and having her be so smart that she will humour her auntie when I wail “what am I going to write about?” by bawling out “Hamburger!”. This, I know, is to shut me up as she’s engrossed with multitasking with her phone, a movie, and a plate of brownies swiped from the university café)

Today’s poetry form, also suggested by brilliant niece, is shape. Burger, shaped like burger.

Sesame seeds adorn your crown
Of soft fresh bun of golden brown
Crispy bacon, tomato slices, melted cheddar
(The oak-smoked kind is all that much better)
Flattened disc of seasoned lean ground beef grilled
Olfactory glands, then taste buds, then belly thrilled
A side dish or two maybe salad, or corn or fries
Or coleslaw share the plate were the burger lies
Ketchup, mustard, relish, or pickle
Accessories for all but most fickle