Song of the Kitchen

I've sung the pomp and pageantry of kings,
Of pearls and peacocks, fauns and pheasants' wings.
Let's talk of things much closer to the heart . . .
Of kitchens and of culinary art.

The shining stove, the Frigidaire, the book
Of well-thumbed recipes, the breakfast nook,
The pots and pans, the oilcloth on the shelves,
The cookie jar where youngsters help themselves,
The spotless floor, the scrubbed and shining walls,
What pleasant memories the word recalls.

Thanksgiving Days and Christmases of yore.
Persistent as a fly beside the door
I stayed, nor words nor threats could make me go.
I saw the angel-cakes as light as snow
Emerge for creamy frosting, white and thick,
And begged to have the mixing bowl to lick. . . .

The kitchen sounds are worthy of some praise,
The plop of kneaded dough on baking days,
The knives' tattoo against the chopping board,
The syrup's cheerful gurgle as it's poured,
The kettle's blithesome singing while it boils,
The pleasant sizzle of a steak that broils,
The blurping and the bubbling of stews,
The family cat's persuasive hungry mews,
The dishpan's clatter and the water's swish,
The smothered Damn when Cookee drops a dish,
The leaky tap that drips a little tune,
The utter quiet of the afternoon.
And then at night, when silence rules the house,
The squeaking of a tiny frightened mouse.

The colors of the kitchen are so bright,
The yellow curtains filtering the light,
The kitchen china, gaudy blues and reds,
The crinkled jade-like green of lettuce heads,
The guinea gold of butter and the yolks
Of eggs, the varied greens of artichokes,
The egg-plant's regal purple and the blush
Of ripe tomatoes or the deeper flush
Of ruddy beet juice crimsoning a pan,
A rainbow to delight a hungry man. . . .

 

~Don Blanding
Songs of the Seven Senses, 1931