Ode to the Weeknight Meal
by the poet mom
It starts with the list and the shopping.
I drop everything each night to begin the chopping.
I wisk, I strain, I gently stir and simmer.
I wipe the sweat from my brow and call the family to dinner.
The kids don’t like it. It looks funny.
They want mac n’ cheese, gooey and runny.
The husband calls to say he’s working late.
Sorry, but the client just cannot wait.
I eat in relative solitude.
And take heart, for there is one who desires my food.
I give him a nod and we meet in the kitchen.
I fill his bowl with the evening’s selection.
He gobbles it up in one giant bite
And licks his chops in delight.