Category: Food

If he says he can cook,
He is one for the book;
It’s a trait that’s not usually man’s.
But he’s probably prone,
If he’s left on his own,
To prove it by opening cans.

by Ray Romine Wednesday, October 17, 1951

I could broil me a steak; I could fix me some chops;
Omelettes are nourishing; salads are tops;
Baked ham I could go for; and how I like noodles,
Or anything humans eat, so there is oodles.
The deep-freeze is bulging with food for the thawing;
And the cupboard reveals things, if I keep clawing.
Sea-foods–there’s anchovies–(I am still looking)
Calories are everywhere: all needing cooking.
This almost-starvation is making me droop,
But my wife’s on vacation: I’ll open some soup.

by Ray Romine Monday, April 7, 1952

Hogs and canines, I am told,
Turn green at what goes in my hold.
Fellow humans enter spasms
At things that soothe my inner chasms.
Friends of mind with quite broad miands
Have hysterics at my viands;
And some who lap up beer and skittles
Cry heinous things about my vittles,
I do not mind my hecklers’ glee–
The less they eat, the more’s for me.

by Ray Romine Tuesday, September 6, 1949

Our daughter bawls like a calf in clover
If her mother serves anything warmed over.
When she’s acquired her own small brood
Will she still kick about second-time food,
Or, when kitchen sweat on her forehead glistens,
Will HER tots squawk the while SHE listens?
It seems to be true, regarding eating,
That history WON’T stand re-heating!

by Ray Romine Monday, November 14, 1949

Observe our sonny’s pitch-craft
With food–but stand aside!
It’s nothing short of witchcraft
If any gets inside.

The spoon he’s flipped and flourished
Has fed his cheeks and chin;
He’d be much nearer nourished
Were he turned outside in.

by Ray Romine Tuesday, September 20, 1949

Apple-pan Dowdy & Shoo-fly pies;
The Frim-fram Sauce, and those Buttermilk Skies–
Change that station– it’s just no treat
To be reminded there’s nothing to eat!

Armour’s Star Ham, and Swift’s Premium Bacon:
The radio is just nature-fakin’.
Personally, I think it’s sad
When they advertise what can’t be had.

So ignore all the dance-bands, whatever you do,
And skip the provision commercials too;
But tune in that opera (of soap they sing),
Where the hero has ulcers and can’t eat a thing!

by Ray Romine Monday, October 14, 1946

The sign, “LIGHT lunch”
I didn’t catch-
The place is small,
The portions match.

by Ray Romine Thursday, April 13, 1950

The waitress asks:
mustard or catsup?
Which do I really prefer?
The time hangs heavily on us–
Couldn’t I leave it to her?

I could say The Works, which would get me
Lettuce and stuff by the head;
But when I want salad I’ll order a salad,
And not have it served between bread.

O why did I order a sandwich?
The question’s as bitter as gall.
The problem of catsup or mustard
Need never have come up at all.

The time for decision is on us;
Let’s whip these things as they occur.
The waitress is standing there primly–
“Catsup or mustard, please, SIR?”

by Ray Romine Wednesday, June 17, 1953

Any cloud has a side that is brighter,
And while I’m an old Picnic indicter,
One thing about ’em isn’t vicious–
I refer, of course, to paper dishes.

by Ray Romine Tuesday, August 1, 1950

A dark-skinned beauty named Olive
Once bit an olive in holive.
She said, “It isn’t bad feed
Except for the seed,
But I stil l prefer Roast Beef or Colive.”

by Ray Romine Friday, January 2, 1948