My mother put a pot of white beans on to soak one evening and went to bed. My father came home from work late, and hungry, and ate a bowl of the beans. Gave himself the hiccups for three days. My father would eat anything, and love it, which was a good thing, because my mother was not a good cook. Yet, every day at dinner, my father cleaned his plate and said "That was the best meal I ever ate." He probably said that about the raw beans.
I've cooked for 34 years for a man who doesn't really much care about food. He'd just as soon have MacDonald's as a home-cooked meal. He can be happy with a bowl of Frosted Flakes for supper. This poem is for him.
After Forty Years of Marriage, She Tries
a New Recipe for Hamburger Hot Dish
“How did you like it?” she asked.
“It’s all right,” he said.
“This is the third time I cooked
it this way. Why can’t you
ever say if you like something?”
“Well if I didn’t like it. I
wouldn’t eat it,” he said.
“You never can say anything
I cook tastes good.”
“I don’t know why all the time
you think I have to say it’s good.
I eat it, don’t I?”
“I don’t think you have to say
all the time it’s good, but once
in a while you could say
you like it.”
“It’s all right,” he said.
Leo Dangel
