“Dinner at eight, mustn’t be late,"
She thought as she hurriedly set down the plate.
Her pocket watch read a quarter to seven.
Had she made enough food to nourish eleven?
She peeped in the steam-pot to check on her soup.
She’d dress the salad last-minute, lest the lettuce should
droop.
The pie that was baking smelled of apples and spice.
“It should be done soon, in only a trice!”
She readied the rub for the corn on the cob,
Then nervously jangled her pocket watch fob.
The infrared cooker was braising the roast,
The dish about which she was anxious the most.
She touched the blancmange with a bionic digit.
It had set nicely, and wasn’t too rigid.
The scapece had married to vinegary perfection,
So, she focused once more on her apple confection.
Placing its golden-brown loveliness up on the sill,
She warned Cassius, her steam-pug, to sit and be still.
On winged evening boots, she flew (literally) upstairs,
To make sure her appearance was sufficiently fair.
Some curls had come loose, so she pinned them back down,
And steamed a few wrinkles out of her silk gown.
The pocket watch now read a quarter to eight;
The salad and corn could no longer wait.
She dressed them and plated the rest of her dishes,
Their aromas each promising something delicious.
Then, she remembered, she’d not made the whipped cream!
She attached a whisk to her finger and worked up some steam.
Chilling the bowl with her left hand, she whisked fast with
her right;
The cream billowed and rippled into a culinary delight.
Then, as if on cue, the doorbell did chime.
Her pocket watch read eight. She sighed, “Right on time!”
- Lisette Atiyeh
