My doctors tell me

to watch what I eat

I do, I watch each morsel on my fork or in my spoon

From bowl to mouth first passing the nose

I never take my eyes off my food

Like a lover entranced

I take my meals in certain restaurants

Where my senses are overwhelmed

And my heart races in anticipation of gustatory bliss

Dribbles of savory fat

A multitude of sweet or salty crumbs

tablespoons of fragrant tangy sauce  

a soupcon of basil

a whiff of mint

a dollop of cookie dough

and always fragrances

of baking

of roasting

of garlic with pan seared meat and vegetables

in a pot of broth

waiting for onions…

my revelry ends and I think,

sadly,

the doctors meant something else

So I began to cook for myself

and soon l would make these wonderful experiences

for myself, and I did

I bought a new kitchen

And pots, pans, and cookbooks

knives and fancy dishes

I measured and counted pieces, calories, and memorized glycemics

I faithfully chanted “death to the whites”

whilst genuflecting in front of my new gas range

I am obedient to those who “practice” medicine

(how much practice do they need?)

But where did all these damn dishes come from