‘Twas many, many years ago
That I became a bride.
I thought we’d live on sweet romance;
He wanted meals beside.
Thus I determined I would be
A cook extraodinaire,
Though I’d no practice in this field
Nor patience to prepare.
For our first week of married life,
We lived on BLT’s.
To make these well, I did excel,
Till he said, “No more, please.”
At breakfast time I burned the toast
And scorched the scrambled eggs.
The coffee that I served to him
Could be defined as dregs.
I’d seen my Mom knead flour and lard
And thought I’d do the same.
Her biscuits were as light as air;
My missiles were a shame.
Directions on the box of rice
Said something ‘bout a cup,
So that is how much rice I used;
We had piles to mop up.
I’ll not forget the first boxed cake
That I so proudly made.
I placed waxed paper on the top.
That’s where the icing stayed.
I didn’t care for oatmeal;
Yet he thought it was nice,
But sad to say my first attempt
It took a knife to slice.
The chicken that took hours to fry
Was tough as some old men.
Then I reread the label and
Found out it was a hen.
If I had shed a shiny tear
For each burned pie I’d bake,
We’d have a place to keep a boat
In our own briny lake.
Those past meals do not matter now,
Upon a second look.
God’s blessed our home with happiness,
And he eats what I cook.
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