O the fulfilling feeling of chopping up each herb,
Of shaking on the spices, to make a meal superb.
The perfume aromatic of garlic and of spices,
Of onions and of ginger, rosemary and thyme!
When left to my devices I dream up meals sublime.
Throw in a bit of this and that. The recipe’s all mine.
Some people like to garden,
But I prefer to cook a meal.
Getting dirt upon my hands
And under nails, is not for me.
I’d rather play with pots and pans,
Than weed or plant a tree.
The pleasure that a gardener finds
In gathering flowers or mowing lawns,
I find in meeting with like minds,
For lawns have prickles, roses thorns.
I’ll let others plant the flowers
To make my center-pieces.
The preparation and the cleaning hours
Before guests come, and after conversation ceases,
Are part of the enjoyment.
Let others find employment
Out of doors.
Are meat and wine to me,
And they will always be.
Tillers live lives solitary,
But I live for company that’s merry.
Expectant knocks upon the door
Are the pleasure I live for.
Friends of friends are welcome too,
To see the evening through.
Once the guests digest
The main meal we digress,
Discussing over wine and cheese
Whatever we may please.
How can pruning shrubs compare
With the ideas that we share?
But not just philosophy holds sway.
Fanatic gardeners have their say.
(I do gardeners a favour
By letting them all savour
Each others’ company at tea.)
But thank you for each herb
You grew to help it taste superb.
Without your skill mine would be less,
Plain food, unsauced, undressed,
So I own yours the needed skill.
Mine is just pleasure – as you will.