I am a dish that talks <br />and usually i want the chef <br />to do his stuff my way <br />wishing this, wishing that <br />hoping to be the next best dish <br />to top the restaurant list <br /> <br />as the chef sprinkles <br />his spices and salt onto me <br />i diffident would complain of <br />the excesses, the overindulgent <br />use of veggies and mutton <br />or mollusks, mustard <br />vinegar and pepper <br />and even the overheating, <br />charbroiled, stir fried <br />steam cooked or stewed <br /> <br />i want it my way giving <br />little regard to the chef's expertise <br />for fear of becoming an <br />offensive blandness on <br />the tongues of the masters <br />over enthusiastic over <br />what would turn out of me <br /> <br />only when my fragrance <br />spreads over the table <br />to trigger that salivating <br />nerves in mouths that <br />the buddha himself would <br />jump over the wall to <br />have me in his belly that <br />i realise the chef is correct <br /> <br />he is cooking me and he knows <br />how best i should be served <br />that exquisiteness that could only <br />result from an original recipe <br />the chef himself knows best <br />how he should turn out his creation <br /> <br />i take the opportunity to ask him <br />what he finds most in the way <br />as he tries to realise his dream of me <br />and he says 'Your load of bland ego <br />with the toughness of a three year old chicken.' <br /> <br />'It takes such a long time to just <br />boil them down to edible portions.'<br /><br />john tiong chunghoo<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/a-dish-cuisine-that-talks/
