Ten years of your drooling at Darina's results,
printing instructions for future consults.
And yet, what you ate before you met me,
was pies en Bentos and Findus Pancakes รก la crispy.
And yet you're an expect, a connoisseur true
as long as you're not the one making the food.
Why don't you cook your dream dinner spreads
instead of hoarding those recipes up on that shelf?
I can't fully gauge what gets me more enraged;
the elastic bands, the dust, or the yellowing pages,
but, I can tell you, truly, the worst of this scene
is how you make speeches about this cuisine;
your plans for fine dining are beyond compare,
you're always refining your ideal menu's fair.
And, oh, how you verbalise, oh, the wild zeal,
when you've set your sights on the day's perfect meal.
I've something to say, the joke's wearing thinner,
I've put in a decade and you've never made dinner.
You've eaten every repast that I've made,
but not one day has passed when you haven't raised
one of your sheets stored up on that shelf
and proceeded to lecture us all how to chef.
(Explanation: This is about my husband, and it's all true. Well, to be fair, he always makes Christmas dinner......but that's once a year so let's not be too fair. I absolutely hate hate hate cooking so I'd be happy for my husband to put his money where his mouth (and recipe collection) is, so don't let me get in your way, Martin!!!)
