Plundering the pantry for pops or porridge,
we commandeer the kettle to concoct consumable caffeine
A ritual routine in readiness for our raw reality.
Soon the cereals are selected and splashed
with milk, and the mango juice is measured
and we gather together to digest greedily with the Guardian
and chomp cheerlessly with curt conversation.
During the drudge and dealings of the day
we regularly return to this room of restitution;
a place of permanence and pleasure
despite our diverse and demanding duties.
Running in routinely for refreshment,
we sample the smells and seductive scents
of coffee, cooking and catering creations,
breathing in balance with the bouquet of baking bread
Working or worrying, worn and weary,
we come to the kitchen with a clear conscience,
to cater for our cravings,
to consume a cake (with consummate ease),
to microwave a macaroni meal,
to peel a pineapple or press some pants.
At night we nip in for nocturnal nutrition
and grab a glittering glass of Grenache
or a measure of mediocre merlot
or furtively fry fish fingers
or complete our calorific quota
with chocolate, cheese or crisps.
The kitchen – the centre of calm and chaos
for family, freshly home from foreign fields
or simply Shepshed or Sainsbury’s.
Coming home to the comfort of cups and cupboards,
the familiarity of the fridge and freezer
and the perpetual provision of the pantry.
We munch and mutter and mull over meals,
discussing our divergent daily doings,
interfacing idly or interacting on an interesting issue,
debating, discussing, disagreeing and digesting.
Here we replenish, recover, relax or restore
with family, friends, fruit and fry ups.
Here is the hum and hiss of home appliances
and the chattering and clattering of children.
Here, the centre of stability, sanity and a stunning selection of soup: