This poem, written by YOURS TRULY (me), is for all the women out there who hate to cook every night…who hate to figure out “what’s for dinner”…who didn’t expect this to be such a large part of their life with their family. If I ever calculated how much time I spend thinking about dinner, planning dinner, shopping for dinner, and making dinner, I’m sure I would be appalled. It takes an inordinate amount of our time, and I can get quite angry about it. I work for a living. I pick up kids. I attend my kids events. I bring work home with me. The last thing I want to do is make dinner. I’m sorry, but it’s true.
Therefore, this poem is dedicated to all moms out there whose (other) job it is to make dinner. If you despise it like I do, I have two words for you: I’m sorry.
Men, please don’t take offense to this poem. I know there are some incredible men out there who cook, organize, and prepare meals. To those of you who actually do spend time creating menus and making meals, please forgive this poem.
Also, please enjoy. It’s meant to poke a little fun.
I Wonder How A Man Would Feel, A Poem
I wonder how a man would feel
If he had to make us every meal
If he had known without a doubt
That we desired a salad topped with sprouts
I wonder how a man would feel
If he had to cut and chop and peel
Onions, celery, chicken and pork
And then serve it to us with knife and fork
I wonder how a man would feel
If he baked us corn bread with cornmeal
And served us chili on a plate
Only to learn it’s something we hate
I further wonder if a man would care
To plan a week’s meals without fail
Breakfast, lunch, and dinner, you see
Must make it all from a full pantry
Stock up on items he would need
Enough for many mouths to feed
Make the dinner, good and healthy
Elaborate meals aren’t just for the wealthy
A vegetable, a starch, some vitamins too
It’s important we get enough to renew
Make sure he gets the recipe right
He shouldn’t disappoint, just delight
I wonder how a man would feel
If he had to touch a banana peel
That was aged and spotted and kind of oozy—
The only one left to go into the smoothie
I wonder how a man would feel
If the menu choice was just plain eel
Because that’s what’s prepared—he’s stuck with it
I’m pretty sure he’d have a fit
I wonder how a man would feel
If his chicken soup began to congeal
And became a leftover for far too long
The hours spent making it now long gone
I further wonder if a man would change
Night after night making food on the range
Would it make him appreciate the hours it took?
No. There’s no cure in sight; I simply hate to cook.
