The Chef Poem by Thomas Case

She wanted the
pans handed to
her a certain way.

I gave them to
her the wrong way,
and in her superior
voice, she said,
'I'm tired of telling you,
handles lined up,
pans facing down.
I will give them
back to you if it's
not the right way! '

I made $5.15 an hour,
my pants and shirt
were dripping wet.
I bit my tongue.

I knew she was no
chef.
Cooking is an
art, but she was too
bunched up to
understand that.
I could have outcooked
her, no matter how she
handed me the pans.