Poem - A dish

I am a dish that talks
and usually i want the chef
to do his stuff my way
wishing this, wishing that
hoping to be the next best dish
to top the restaurant list

as the chef sprinkles
his spices and salt onto me
i diffident would complain of
the excesses, the overindulgent
use of veggies and mutton
or mollusks, mustard
vinegar and pepper
and even the overheating,
charbroiled, stir fried
steam cooked or stewed

i want it my way giving
little regard to the chef's expertise
for fear of becoming an
offensive blandness on
the tongues of the masters
over enthusiastic over
what would turn out of me

only when my fragrance
spreads over the table
to trigger that salivating
nerves in mouths that
the buddha himself would
jump over the wall to
have me in his belly that
i realise the chef is correct

he is cooking me and he knows
how best i should be served
that exquisiteness that could only
result from an original recipe
the chef himself knows best
how he should turn out his creation

i take the opportunity to ask him
what he finds most in the way
as he tries to realise his dream of me
and he says "Your load of bland ego
with the toughness of a three year old chicken."

'It takes such a long time to just
boil them down to edible portions.'