Dad’s Night to Cook

It’s Dad’s night to cook

And I can’t help a shiver.

What kind of yuckfest

Will he dare to deliver?

Last time, it was tripe

In an oniony sauce

With a side dish of sprouts

Boiled to green pulp of course.

Before that were brains

Fried in oil to a mush.

One taste and we gave them

A right royal flush.

Then kidneys and steak

In a pudding, you know.

He left out the steak:

It was kidneys and dough.

So now on the bench

Something slimy pink quivers

And into the bowl

Oozes blood in red rivers.

Dad says, ‘Don’t you fret.

There’s a feast in the making

Like you’ve never seen,

I mean truly breathtaking.’

He stirs and he sautés.

He toasts and he turns.

He dices and spices

And browns till it burns.

We stare at our plates

Dad says, ‘Please try a sliver.’

But whatever is it?

Erk, charred chicken liver!

‘That’s it’, says my mother,

‘Dad’s cooking will stop

Unless it’s a pizza

He buys from the shop.’

Dad seems kind of sad.

We’ve upset him, I think.

But then he turns round

And he gives me a wink.

It’s all been a fake

An ingenious plan…

One I must remember

When I am a man.

 Sharon Hammad