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 (and, I should 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salad dressing, he was horrified to find that most of my bottles, half-empty and crusty around the tops, were grossly outdated.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 specialty.

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!

                                          NKC