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.