I’m posting this poem at the request of several Facebook friends, who were curious about a reference to my former status as a non-gardener (or should I admit, a lousy housekeeper). In my son’s early years on our small farm in Texas, we had the “go-to” house, since I wasn’t fussy about boys vaulting over my living room couches, sleeping all over the den, or raiding the refrigerator day and night. I just made sure to stock the pantry with good food, or so I thought, and always had plenty of Pillsbury pull-apart-and-bake cinnamon rolls.
On one occasion, my younger son’s pal decided to make something truly healthy for the gang, and dove into the lettuce/veggie drawer. When it came time for the salad dressing, he was horrified to find that most of my bottles, half empty and crusty around the tops, were grossly outdated. After that, he vowed never to eat at my house again. Oh well, I got a poem out of it:
I AIN’T NO BETTY CROCKER
(OR) I AIN’T NO MARTHA STEWART
The Smith and Hawkins Company
Has sent two “Lily Kits” to me.
I’m double-dared to force “Lily”,
Against all odds of Botany.
Just look in my fridge and you’ll agree,
Green mold’s my green thumb’s speciality.
The mildewed cheese and mysteries
Are well-known to my sons who tease
That immunizations are just a breeze–
They’ve survived Expiration-Date Disease!