WHIPPED

It was the night before “Something”

When all through my house 

A mess I’d been making 

(You should'a seen my blouse) 

I do all this prep  

Without care or worry  

And like it much better 

When I’m not in a hurry 

The veggies are ready 

But there is hesitation 

I’d like to cut fruit 

Without enzyme oxidation 

I sit in my chair 

Pondering options for cooking 

Convection, conduction, radiation 

Just stop looking! 

The process is such 

The food gives me help 

Except that one time… 

When I tried to fix kelp 

Wait! Back to the story 

(I tend to get lost) 

When my kitchen is filled 

With so much amylose 

I’ve spent most the day 

Working starch into pastry 

And I might say 

The stuff is quite tasty 

The fillings are diffused 

With sugar and fruit 

And I’m always surprised 

When they turn out this cute 

When suddenly it hits me 

But is it too late 

To possibly  top them 

With a coagulate? 

I’ve heard of this cream 

I know it’s quite heavy 

It’s all about chance here 

Could I be that ready? 

I get my stuff going 

I call it by name 

I know I’m alone 

Yet it’s part of the game 

I stand at the mixer 

There is no hesitation 

I’m sure of this process 

It’s denaturation 

Oh such a mess! 

I cause so much clatter 

My dog even wonders 

“Hey what’s the matter"? 

On with the whipping 

Boy this is a scene 

I’m mixing amino acids 

Inside some protein 

Go carbon and hydrogen 

Some nitrogen too 

Keep moving there sulphur 

(Phosphorus doesn’t have a clue) 

So what am I seeing? 

A clot, mass or gel? 

Is it time to give up? 

Continue a spell? 

Best that I stop 

No more words will I utter 

With more agitation...

My cream will be butter!

Susan... 

Say What You Need To Say

Clare never wanted to look back – she would drown 

in the reflection if she let them have control. The 

haunting of her spirit is more than enough; popping 

in and out of her life at their discretion. There are no 

lessons learned enough, or books read enough, to 

ease the whispers of her journey. She knew this...the 

parasites would feed from her forever. They knew 

where to slither and how deep to feast, leaving scars 

and molted remains scattered along the path. Her 

attempts to rid them have never been successful; 

only momentarily does she feel relief, and at what 

cost? They do not allow her control; her freedom 

comes with stipulations. As with Pavlov and his dog, 

Clare has been conditioned; “Do what you do Clare, 

and say what you need to say, but we are here - and 

here is where we are going to stay.”