Mae Scanlan : Not in the Food Mood

I look in my kitchen and what do I see,
A room that might well be the finish of me.
It’s chock-full of work-saving gadgets, designed
To help, but which just drive me out of my mind.
The toaster’s okay – I’ll give that one a pass,
But all of the others?  I hate them, en masse.
For instance, the processor;  that one’s a doozy;
The mere thought of cleaning those blades makes me woozy.
The slow cooker sits on the counter in splendor
Between the big wok and immersible blender
(The latter, around which I don’t like to linger
Since learning my neighbor had mangled a finger
On one just like mine).  There’s the corkscrew deluxe:
It’s as big as a melon and cost fifty bucks.
It’s got infinite parts and it does many things,
And I cannot describe the frustration it brings.
I’ve choppers and graters and mashers and whisks
Which call for more storage and create more risks.
And then there’s the stove and the fridge and the sink;
God love ‘em, but they send me over the brink.
I’ve just now decided that I am, to kitchens,
What organized faith was to Christopher Hitchens.