Another stray poem …



On Masterchef, the knives are swish,

As is, of course, the blow-torch:

For you may wish to give your dish

A Chinese burn or slow scorch.


I used to think, with a recipe,

Of the kitchen’s manumission:

But now I find that I must be

A laboratory technician.


Gordon, Heston, Michel Roux,

Give me your rears to wallop –

I can’t be arsed to make a jus

Or to sear another scallop.


God rot your kitchen cabinet,

With your rosti, and your foam.

Mash and meat, that’s what they’ll get,

My kids, when they come home.


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