​When Pasta Hits The Floor

And who are you, the cook once said,
with pasta on the floor?
Just one who dropped the sacred bowl,
and slipped across the board.

With penne limp or fusilli proud,
no noodle stands secure.
And mine are lost, in sauce embossed,
beneath the kitchen drawer.

And so it steamed, and so it screamed,
that pot of ancient lore.
Where garlic ghosts still haunts the halls,
and pasta’s served no more.
Oh, false promises of basil fumes,
when pasta… hits the floor.

The bolognese was thick and bold,
a ragu rich and deep.
But now it stains the floorboards red,
where meat and onions weep.

The grated dreams of parmesan
lie dashed across the tiles.
Oh curse the spoon that flipped too soon,
and fate that slicks our aisles.

And so it steamed, and so it screamed,
that pot of ancient lore.
Where garlic ghosts still haunt the halls,
and pasta’s served no more.
Oh, false promises of basil fumes,
when pasta… hits the floor.

And lo, the forks lie rusting still,
their tines a mournful choir.
The colander, once crown of kings,
now slumbers in the fire.

Through the cracks of carb and cream
whispers can be heard.
The Carbonara dawn shall break,
and will be served once more.

And so it steamed, and so it dreamed,
that dish of mythic yore.
Till Carbonara calls the brave,
to feast… forevermore.

Tl;DR – dropped my pasta.