When Ms. Pepper met Mr. Salt,
she saw him as her equal—
until Miss Sugar came along
& invited him
to sprinkle his crystals
atop her silky caramel.
It was then,
& only then,
that Ms. Pepper realized
there wasn’t anything
that Mr. Salt could not do,
for he complimented
as well as the sweet,
I Can’t Eat That!
I can’t eat gravy out of a packet or jar (no MSG, please),
I can’t eat potatoes out of a box (why, when the real thing
is so much cheaper, pound for pound?),
or margarine in any form (I can totally believe it’s not butter);
I can’t eat cranberry sauce out of a can (no jiggly, ribbed silos for me),
I can’t eat green bean casserole (concocted with Campbell’s chemicals),
or sweet potato casserole (because I just don’t like orange potatoes);
I can’t eat “whipped cream” made of oil (as if spun into white gold
by the nemesis of Rumpelstiltskin),
and I am thankful to be fortunate enough to be able to make that choice.
Kandi Barr’s Quandary
When a beau broke up with her
(it was never the other way around),
she turned to Mr. Goodbar.
When she lost another job
(always a dead-end one),
she found a Payday.
When she needed a break from the world
(a world where size 28W was hard to find),
she opted for a Milky Way.
When she didn’t know what the hell she wanted,
she went for a Whatchamacallit.
Then she met the man
who gave her a 100 Grand–
a man who knew she was the one–
even though he couldn’t wrap his arms around her.
The fact that she was king-sized & marshmallow-soft
appealed to him,
so when she became happy,
the stress (& the fat) melted away,
but so did his fat fetish-based love.
I Get it Well Done
I get all my meat well done
because I like my protein
like I like my lovemaking–
because anything less
isn’t medium rare,
only half done.
The Baker’s Manifesto
Betty Botter was a lousy cook,
but a swell baker,
for working with butter, sugar, flour, & eggs
was easy as pie,
a piece of cake,
a ginger snap even.
Throw chocolate chips into the mix,
& she was unstoppable.
The feel of raw meat made her sick,
& whoever referred to their kiddo
as Bacon or Hamburger?
It was always Cupcake or Sweetie Pie,
just as wretched men were pigs,
& dumbasses of both sexes were sheep—
mooing, oinking, bleating meat.
the smart cookies knew when
to shut their pieholes & cakeholes,
& stick a baguette in them,
for it was better to eat carbs
than to part your lips
& say something stupid.
Mother said my testimony would become stronger every time I bore it, but was that not just because I would be convincing myself?
Mother would sometimes slip into the habit of speaking in old English, as that was how we were supposed to conduct ourselves in prayer.
Mormons loved fat-laden casseroles & water to drink at every function. It was thrift at both ends of the spectrum.
Funeral potatoes & lime-green Jell-O with shredded carrots no longer sounded strange to me. I was in their world, but not of it.
He went on & on about how wonderful his wife was, just as she went on & on how blessed she was to have a worthy priesthood holder in the home.
The Mormon garments had been the fabric that miracles were fabricated of, for they guarded one from fires, rape, & all manner of weaponry.
Sister Bear catching on fire seemed to appeal to more people than finding out Brother Schafer had once been a rake, & not of the gardening kind.
The bearing of testimonies was an exercise in mesmerism, cloaked in religious language, the brain lighting up in spiritual socialization.
When This Little Twiggy Went to Meat Market (Notice: All Sales Final)
Twiggy Piggy, a foxymoronic sow,
went to look for a smokin’ hot mammalian beefcake
with whom she could cook up something tasty
(like a litter of mini meatloaves).
She turned down Monsieur Filet Mignon
after he made the piggist comment
that his preference was Kosher.
When Ground Biff said he needed a little pink slime
to beef him up,
she sunk her teeth into Sir Porterhouse–
liking the largeness & tenderness of him.
But she realized her haste
when he cornered her in her sty
that after he was well-done,
all that would be left would be her squeal.