When I think of food,
I think of my Mom.
My mom is the best cook in the world.
She made us macaroni and cheese
With hot dogs cut up in it
Even though she couldn't stand
The taste of it herself.
She made us eggbutter
(Without any butter or eggs)
And had us break our own bread
Before eating our comfort food together
She made us salmon patties
And Brussels sprouts
And I'll always remember those
Two nights, two meals
Where we didn't have to clean our plates
Because she didn't like it either
She made us Christmas cookies
And then let us decorate them
With eight or ten colors of frosting
That she also whipped right up
She didn't even complain
When the frosting was thicker than the cookie
And the red-hots weren't just Rudolph's nose
But his fancy harness, too.
One time, my mom even made
Creampuffs for my play
And afterwards we ate the props
So there I stood, in a paper apron,
White chef's hat, and tennis shoes
Schoolmates laughing around me
And telling me how good they were--
The creampuffs that she made.
Now whether it's creampuffs,
Snow on the mountain cookies,
Homemade beef stew in the crockpot,
Cinnamon sunrise bread,
Rice (that's not burned black),
Eggbutter, or even just a BLT...
When I see or smell or think of food,
I think about my Mom,
And what she means to me.
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