My doctors tell me
to watch what I eat
I do, I watch each morsel on my fork or in my spoon
From bowl to mouth first passing the nose
I never take my eyes off my food
Like a lover entranced
I take my meals in certain restaurants
Where my senses are overwhelmed
And my heart races in anticipation of gustatory bliss
Dribbles of savory fat
A multitude of sweet or salty crumbs
tablespoons of fragrant tangy sauce  
a soupcon of basil
a whiff of mint
a dollop of cookie dough
and always fragrances
of baking
of roasting
of garlic with pan seared meat and vegetables
in a pot of broth
waiting for onions…
my revelry ends and I think,
sadly,
the doctors meant something else
So I began to cook for myself
and soon l would make these wonderful experiences
for myself, and I did
I bought a new kitchen
And pots, pans, and cookbooks
knives and fancy dishes
I measured and counted pieces, calories, and memorized glycemics
I faithfully chanted “death to the whites”
whilst genuflecting in front of my new gas range
I am obedient to those who “practice” medicine
(how much practice do they need?)
But where did all these damn dishes come from

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