Gregg by Lara Jakob

He said I had lovely puddings:

That no baking powder was needed

To get a rise out of him.

 

He said my buns had great warmth:

That the dough needn’t be kneaded

For the sin to grow within

 

He said our flavours complemented each other:

That on the palate we pirouetted like peppercorns;

Pole dancing ‘pon the rolling pin.

 

He wanted to go to heaven on my spoon,

Felt that divinity was in my chocolate

That my soufflés were deities

That he had found his soul in my jus.

 

The temperature keeps increasing,

The kitchen is getting hotter -

I don’t want our sauce to split.

 

Mr Wallace, I realise:

Loving you couldn’t get any tougher than this.

Lara blogs here and tweets to great effect, especially during competitive cooking shows.

GINGERBREAD BRUTALIST POEM by Abi Palmer

berlin, 1957

she cut her finger on the sugar window pane   and even when the loaves rose they were unforgiving  breadcrumbs on my fists  anger in the pastry walls   but it was seven floors before we checked the blueprint   not a candy knocker  not a bonbon bell  syrup on the second floor goes uninspected  we get mice  the doors are stale  and fourteen storeys more before the fucker pays us    gretel sighs   I lick her face (frosting on the brow) and tighten up her apron  somewhere in the distance  a witch laughs

Abi Palmer blogs here.