X-men powers

What would I do if I had x-men powers?

I wouldn’t hesitate or think for hours.

Cyclops’ laser eyes are handy for cooking,

No need for a stove, I’d just do some looking

And the onions would be sautéed to perfection,

Later to be eaten by objects of my affection.

Wolverine’s claws could open all the letters,

Persuasion +10 when chased by debtors.

Also, good for chopping up an onion

Chopping them cleanly, like trees with Paul Bunyan.

Being telepathic, like Professor X,

Could stop an international annex.

Also, I’d know if onions are ok to cook

For my guests without asking, just a quick look.

In summary I’d say, the powers would be pretty cool

All of them help polish that culinary jewel.


Cheese origins

“This cheese is weird.” said my friend to me.

“They’re not naturally cubes you see.

The natural form is oval or round,

That’s how, in cheese forests, they are found.”

I inhale sharply and deliver tea

Into my nostrils and in front of me.

“What in the where now did you say?

I’ll ask you to repeat that if I may.”

“Cheese in the forests, in, you know, trees.

That’s where they grow, pollinated by bees.

Teeny tiny slices at first, but then,

A whole cheese wheel and that is when

You go and pick it so you have your cheese,

Before it falls down in an unusual breeze.”

She excuses herself as she is done eating.

Walks back to work or some sort of meeting.

My mouth so open it could house a fist,

I can only drool because of this sudden twist.

Speck, the Vulcan

Spock is the Vulcan from Star Trek.

He has a brother whose name is Speck.

He is a replicator in human form,

With pointy ears per the Vulcan norm.

The food comes out from a nostril, the right

The drinks from the left, because it’s a bit tight.

If you think it’s icky, well you know, he’s a Vulcan,

Not a dirty human like me or Macaulay Culkin.

You calibrate your wishes by pulling on the ears.

No fuss, no trouble, no clanking of gears.

Shoot it forcefully into your container,

Of course you bring one, that’s a no-brainer.

I don’t know if Star Trek has Tupperware,

But if not, then something else that’s square.

Spock likes his brother and that’s no wonder,

With him every party will fail to go under.

Just be sure to calibrate it well,

One yank too much and and your soda might smell.


If I had portals, I’d never waste time

Bringing food with a fork to my mouth.

I’d hold one in my hand like a dime,

And one between my teeth to transport it down south.

Press my hand on the taters slowly,

To keep the tater-traffic in check,

Enjoy the sensation wholly

Without straining my sprained left peck.

If I attached one under my heel,

I could pick up stuff without stooping.

As an old man I wouldn’t have to kneel.

I could also have a butt for long distance pooping.

I guess you could use it for industry as well

Or transporting food to all the people in need.

But for me and my arm not moving’d be swell,

Outstandingly lazy, but swell indeed

Black beans and onions

Black beans! And onions!

Black beans! And onions!

I have a frying pan and those two ingredients,

A rapeseed oil bottle brimming with its contents,

Salt and black pepper and a spatulaaaaa,

Plus a knife as sharp as the fang of Draculaaaa!

Chip-chap-chop makes the onions small,

But not so much you can’t see them at all.

The kitchen becomes my private pool,

The onions make me always a fool.

Drain the beans and wash them like a sweet baby,

Gently and well, with warm water maybe.

Sauté the onions in the heat of a dragon,

High time for me to get on the dragon bandwagon.

Stir with the beans and give the saltiest season,

Where they live, sweet water is treason!

Sprinkle enough pepper to give them coal lung,

So that you can taste it in the air on your tongue.

Make them dance with the spatulaic grace,

Put them on a plate and stuff your face.

If you burnt your tongue, points for the zeal,

And good luck tasting the rest of the meal.

Firewood of love

Food is love, or so I heard,

Be it bread or an old cheese curd.

Warmth is love up here in the cold.

There was a man who nothing but sold

His dear time to chopping piles of wood,

His wife thought this was super slightly rude,

As all he ever did was chop, chop, chop,

He would not take a break, nor would he stop.

When he gained years and was hospitalized,

In the midst of winter, his work was prized.

All he kept asking was “Do you have enough?”

He knew being ice-encased is rough.

Warmth was love for this old man,

The only way to show it, a firewood plan.

If this is the truth of this word of mouth,

Could ice be love down in the deep south?

Or maybe it’s water, I’m sure I don’t know.

Everyone has a different way they show.


If I was immortal and could not die,

No matter how I was stabbed in the eye.

If teleporting was also one of my skills,

I could escape even from under hills.

I’d had lived from the beginning of time,

Talking to people in history’s prime.

From ancient Sumerians to Incas to us,

I would be there, ready to discuss.

Taste all the foods that people have made,

Learn all the words from every decade.

Read all the stories told by every culture.

Pet every beast from goat to a vulture.

Know how the sunrise feels in the east,

And in the west with a succulent feast.

Feel the dry scorch of deserts in the sun,

The frozen brows with the frost-born one.

Learn how people think and what they feel,

What are the best words to sooth and to heal.

That’s what I’d do if I was immortal,

If only I could find some magic portal…