These were vegan;
 I say “were” because they’re gone now.
 We ate them — all of them.
 Even the crumbs.

 Desserts are (so I was taught)
 A reward we give ourselves
 In moderation
 For eating healthy food first.

 But now,
 It is all healthy,
 And there is no moderation,
 In anything.

 And the turgid fruits 
 Of our immoderation become

 Our just desserts

 There is no food more perfect;
 At least, that's what I think --
 It is my "desert island" food,
 I didn't even blink

 When asked once what my favorite was,
 For it was plain to me:
 Just garlic bread, that's all I need
 In its

 Simplicity

 Why should I be the only thing
 In my house that's pressure cooked?
 
 I used a crockpot,
 Am a crackpot,
 That seems right.

 When days grow cold,
 A hearty stew is just the thing.
 Of course, I live in Georgia, USA,
 And so, the days aren't cold.

 I stewed over the preparation of this;
 Crying over the cutting of onions,
 Steeped in the family tradition of never
 Stopping a joke until it's

 Overcooked

 The earth, connected to our deepest
 Selves. And then what comes from it;
 The life we live, just life that has
 Been lived, albeit differently,
 Because we can't eat sunlight like
 The higher forms of earthly life
 Can do

I went to get a philly —

I take it plain, not frilly —

Just onions, pepper, meat and cheese:

Much more than that

Is silly

---

Some swedish meatballs on a plate,

A bit of mashed potato —

To eat this stuff might not be wise,

So I guess I’m not

Plato

---

O cinnamon roll, I love you.

You’re good and pure and sweet —

The doctor says I shouldn’t, but

He’s not here when I eat.

 

I’m better off without you.

That’s what the doctor says —

But one of you is worth a thousand

Health analyses

---

Some kids will eat their broccoli

While others will not do it;

We just seem to be born that way

And that’s all there is

To it

---

Hot chocolate to warm a Winter day,
Or take the edge off cold December nights:
A bit of peace and bliss outside the fray,
A moment with the simplest of delights —

The things we love because we know we do:
These grow with time, but shrink with reticence
To show our passions as they are, and true,
As though ashamed of our own innocence.

But what, then, do we really have to prove?
That we’re grown up, and so feign to despise
The things we really like, as if to move
Onlookers from the plain truth in our eyes?

But genuine is better, anyways:
Like good hot chocolate December days.