Messy

We’re messy

with gooey dough coating our fingers,

and shouting made up lyrics

over the voices of the actual singers

We’re messy

with our tired arms stirring-

dough grating over the spaetzle maker,

over a boiling pot of water

We’re messy

with the pan of wine and cream

as diced shallots pop and scream,

as the hot oil crackles

beneath prosciutto wrapped prawns

We’re messy

with three people evading a kitchen wreck

while it’s all hands on dough- wait I mean deck.

Every eye on every dish

every taster tasting

three critics supervising

We’re messy

with our stained recipe binder open,

food pouring onto plates

Utensils on cloth napkins, waiting

on the table with the water glasses,

for us to come and eat the special dish;

the one we make only in cool weather

We’re messy

with our dinner chatter.

Words are bouncing off the walls

as we gobble down the goodness,

and we talk about how rich it is,

how there won’t be any leftovers,

because although it’s a simple recipe

to make it is very messy.