#13: Out of the Cookie, Into the Fire
Prompt: Write a poem inspired by fortune cookie fortunes
‘Soup was secret family recipe made from toad. Hope you liked!’
Well. How am I supposed to feel about that
Especially at the end of lunch?
Herein lies the problem:
It was not a particularly good meal
Neither was it a particularly bad meal.
Soup there was, certainly –
An amorphous sweet-and-sour something
With more sweet, less sour and even more somethings
(mostly unidentifiable but they could be toad
Although one would assume toad skin
Might be more…warty? Gelatinous?
More something, anyway.)
If it were a terrible soup, it would be understandable.
The toad would be at fault. Too old, perhaps
Or not marinated enough
Or perhaps too young and lacking in flavour
(somewhat like old tough boiling fowls
Which will break teeth but are amazingly tasty)
If it were a spectacular soup, that too would be easy.
The toad was prepared with meticulous care
The herbs exactly right and the steaming time
Perfection. Bravo chef!
But a mediocre soup gives none of these alternatives.
Could that be why it’s a secret family recipe?
A family failure left to languish in the annals of infamy?
So I’m now left wondering whether it could have been
A) Very bad or
B) Very good
What I am certain is that it’s less the fault of the toad
And more a lack in the soup maker’s skill
To turn such a potential delicacy (or (or disaster)
Into a dish of such ho-hum blahdom.
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