Guess who's coming to dinner?

I'm noticing a lack of food related poetry around these parts. Don't worry, I'm here to rectify that.

I know it's there,

in the next room over.

In the kitchen it waits.

Silently.

Silently it waits,

and silently it taunts me.

I heard the water boil the noodles,

heating and bubbling incessantly.

I felt as though I could feel the noodles soften,

I felt them loose their rigidity and become soft,

perfect for such a dish my mother was preparing.

They did not writhe in agony,

it was more like a warm bath to them,

a nice, relxing bath that loosens their tightened bodies.

The water was removed from the pot,

an unecessary impurity.

The ground beef was added next,

the lucious dark brown lumps of meat

are slowly mixed in with the noodles.

The juices and oils in the meat are delicious,

their scent intoxicating.

I really don't know how vegetarians can stand it.

The peas go in after,

these green, small, perfectly small spheres

help add texture, though in my opinion,

do nothing to add to the flavor.

And of course, this meal would not be complete without the sauce.

How could one forget the most important part of the meal?

The taste is unforgettable,

it soaks into everything,

the beef, the noodles, the peas,

It's a you-lick-the-entire-bowl-clean taste,

a lot like beef stroganoff if you've ever had it.

It's hard to describe with words,

I encourage you to try it.

Silently it waits,

silently it taunts me.

Heheheh, you still have to wait!

Not time for dinner yet!

I tell it to wait a few minutes,

then we'll see who's laughing.

HEHEHEHEHEHEHEHEH.

Seconds pass,

then minutes,

might as well be years.

My stomach complains loudly.

It has a sixth sense about when cooked food is near.

Or maybe it's the smell,

the smell of the sauce and the beef combined together

is mindbending, simply mindbending.

"Time for dinner!" is the battlecry.

At its utterance, the troops rush in

brandishing their weapons,

their spoons and their forks,

their cups and their bowls.

I am amongst them,

as hungry and incensed as the worst of the bunch.

We clang our cups and bowls together,

the clanging is nearly deafening.

One by one, we are served.

I inch closer to the pot

and my hands shake.

It's a tough job keeping them steady.

Finally I get my food,

and I can see the steam rising off the noddles and meat,

the oils of the beef combined with the sauce.

I sit down on the couch

and barely notice I'm sitting on the dog's leg.

She pulls it out from under me,

and I'm brought back to reality.

I stare at the bowl for a moment

and take a moment to chuckle at this cruel twist of fate.

My fork plunges like a Stuka,

it's going in for the kill.

It has one last thought,

supposedly meant to antagonize,

but I also detect a hint of sadness.

I regret nothing.

I'm sure you do.

But I know I don't regret eating you.

I. Will. Eat. Every. Last. Delicious. Morsel.

And I did.

My teeth easily break up the beef,

which falls apart like an old, decrepit statue.

The noodles fall as the beef did,

made even softer by the sauce.

The meal is devoured in minutes,

and I go back for another bowl.

The next serving is finished,

and I go back for another bowl.

This serving is finished,

and I go back for another bowl.

I go back for another serving,

but now it's all gone.

Head hung, I shuffle towards the sink,

but not before I lick every square inch of the bowl clean.

Then the fork goes in the cup,

the cup goes in the bowl,

and the bowl goes in the sink.

The taste lingers in my mouth,

and now I understand why Shakespeare said

that parting is such sweet sarrow.

I sit back down on the couch

and suddenly feel so nostalgic.

I miss the taste, truly I do.

Glumly, I look around for something to occupy my taste buds,

something to get my mind off the noodles and the beef and the sauce.

Out of the corner of my eye,

I see a bag of Jolly Ranchers.

Eh, it'll do.

• 
• 3465 of 7012
•