The Barefoot Contessa, Rachel Ray,
Emeril, The Iron Chefs...
We watch them all.
I come home from
working all night
to find you chopping onions,
peeling potatos, simmering
the blend of the day.
My mom calls and asks,
"What's the Galloping Gourmet
cooking for dinner tonight?"
The girls at work laugh
when I tell them about
your culinary adventures.
Last week, we went to Borders
and you fell in love
with a cookbook,
and made me buy it
as an early Christmas present.
I took you out to eat,
proclaimed, "You don't have
to cook tonight, honey,"
but when we got home,
you were oh-so restless.
" I know you're going
to think I'm crazy,"
you said at nine p.m.,
"but I have to cook something."
You took out a couple pounds
of chicken,
drizzled them with butter,
Tabasco, E.V.O.O,
a little Essence to kick it up a notch
(Oh yeah, baby!)
and cooked chicken wings.
We woke Collin up to try them,
and you said,
"Now, I'm happy.
I can sleep tonight.
I cooked something today."
I still think Emeril
is a hottie,
but Baby,
You Da Bomb!
