An ode to the kitchen.

Ah, my dear kitchen.
How I love thee.
Despite you being roughly 2 metres square.
How I love to bake cookies in there.
And cakes of fruit and sponge,
And one day, maybe Rhubarb gunge. (Yes it is a real thing)

It is a place of creation, of smells and tastes,
A tiny fridge freezer, but no waste.
A place of innovation, a place without limit.
A gingerbread man timer and ladybird trivet.

Silicone bakeware, muffin cases and cutters.
A tiny fridge filled with Lurpak butters. (On offer in Tesco)
More gadgets per cubic feet,
You're always sure of a treat.
Just check the tins on top of the microwave.
You never know what might be in them.
Today gingernuts, tomorrow apple cake.
The next day, they are likely gone.

Minimal work tops and limited space,
Not many could cope with this tiny little place.
But dancing around in my kitchen all grace,
In my slippers and PJ's, there's no disgrace.

I use the microwave as a mirror,
To do my hair, it's so much clearer,
It's so much more than a food heater,
The wooden spoons are drum stick beaters,
The whisk has no handle but still whisks well
But I can't throw it away, who knows, pray tell
When I will find another that whisks so well.

The constant line of washing up.
Waiting to be cleaned, is that my cup?
Green Fairy liquid, gooey and slimy
A lovely yellow scourer and crusted on food, cor blimey.
A spice rack above, the washing machine below,
A kettle and toaster that decided to blow.
RIP Reginald, stupid flammable raisin.

Who would have thought a hot cross bun could cause a fire.
And ruin my toaster with it's funeral pyre.
But alas Reginald is no more.
He only toasts one side, which becomes a tiresome bore.
And so we bid you adieu and say farewell.
We will never forget the toast you toasted so well.
Goodbye my red and black friend.
An ode to my kitchen
And now it's the end.



Don't worry. I won't give up the day job. I will most definitely not be turning to poetry, though I think you'll agree what a fabulous job I just did. Ha!

I really have lost the wonderful Reginald (Yes I named my toaster Reginald, what's the problem?) to a rogue raisin on a suicide mission. Why do these things always happen when A is away and then it makes me feel like I'm incapable of looking after myself or the flat? Although, I did put the fire out very carefully and calmly, after the initial shock of, Oh Dear Lord, Reginald's on fire.  And I cleaned it out and carried on using it. It's alright, you just turn the bread over half way through and it toasts both sides.

Time to get ready for my Wednesday run. Feeling chilly just thinking about it. Let's hope it hurts a little less than last week.