If you could, for a minute,
set down on a milk crate
in my kitchen and watch
me move between
tools and powders and bowls and
eye ball dashes of one parts and two
licked pinky tastings and aromatic
family tree free basings amid
extra sensory perceptions of
wind up timer accuracy and
flavor meshing diplomacy
better than any team of rivals
you could understand,
with theory, practice, and improv held under thumb,
why I am livid that three batches and
twelve years of cooking in
a simple pot of white rice
to this day has me completely stumped.
