Strap on an apron. Tie it tight. This can be messy.
Switch on exhaust fan. This gets smelly, too.
Ignite the gas, feed flames.
Bang down the skillet, the pot.
Throw open the tap.
Salt. Sear. Stew. Steam. Scald. Broil.
Immerse in smoking oil.
Watch you don't burn yourself.
Peel. Cut. Chop. Grate. Grind.
Mash. Shred. Slit. Slice open.
Careful you don't slash yourself.
Dash out to the herb bed.
Yank up fistfuls.
Snatch from stems the sage and thyme leaves.
Rip through plastic wrap. Grab the breastbone.
Draw and quarter. Dismember. Skin. De-bone.
Remember how Great-Aunt Marie chased
a chicken down,
curled a fist around its neck,
held it out and wound up like a baseball pitcher.
Round, round, round,
the chicken flies off, runs around headless.
Head in Auntie's hand.
A few red spatters on the gingham apron.
Fork. Spoon. Knife discreetly.
Inhale perfectly acceptable aroma. Salivate.
Lips gape. Teeth bite. Chew.
Thoroughly masticate. Swallow. Again. Again. Again.
Not too fast. Don't choke.
Pick remnants from teeth. Belch. Excuse yourself.
Smile. Compliment the cook.
Liquefy with acidic decomposition.
Siphon nutrients. Extract fluid.
Piss and shit it out.