I’m at home in the kitchen.
Maybe it’s lineage.
Maybe its because I had to clean my plate before I left the table.
I thought, depression years.
We dare not waste the rations of war.
We will consume them.
Taste, does it matter?
My mother baked, and baked, and baked.
I feed you so you will live one more day.
Is that not love?
I am at home in the kitchen.