Oh yes, it's a poem I wrote back in the spring for my poetry class. But it's accurate. And the cookies are amazing – like mouth-gasm amazing.
Bake them. I promise you'll love them.
The sound of the eggs splitting reminds me of the heart of mine that is currently broken.
As I pour in 1 cup of mild vegetable oil,
It reminds me of you slipping off to the library with her
I begin to mix faster, adding in three fourths cup of white sugar,
I’m surprised the librarian didn’t hear you singing Def Leppard in the act
and then three fourths cup of brown sugar,
Or the banging of the brown back books
Two cups of flour into the bowl-
flowers, you used to bring me those.
Pink roses, my favorite.
I wonder what HER favorite flower is.
1 teaspoon of salt-
Its going to take more than that to melt the ice on my heart.
1 teaspoon of baking soda goes in as well,
but it wont help us rise out of this situation.
One teaspoon of vanilla-
vanilla, your favorite flavor of ice cream,
the kind you will now share with her.
My favorite is chocolate chip,
and I would eat this whole 12oz bag if I didn't have to dump them in the batter.
As I grip the spoon and stir with all of my might,
I pretend like I am throwing punches at you.
WHY did you do this to me?
WHY did you leave?
WHY did you cheat?
Whew. I'm better.
I heat the over to three hundred and fifty degrees,
which I am assuming is the exact temperature of Hell,
where I hope you go.
I plop them in even rows onto the greased cookie sheet,
then smash them down,
pretending each little ball of dough is your face-
hope that fork feels good.
Into the oven for eight minutes-
eight, the number of months we were together.
I handle the pan with care as I pull it out of the oven,
paying close attention to what I am doing,
a feat you never learned to master.
One by one onto the cooling rack,
waiting for somebody to come by and enjoy them,
a phenomenon I feel like I will never enjoy again.
Do you pen poems about your food? Don't be shy.