Kitcheneering
Today I became a contented new buyer
of something not really for me;
it’s the kitchen enigma they call an air fryer
but not one you’ve “Seen on TV.”
I spent many nights looking over websites
with reviews and statistics galore,
paying little attention to those would mention
the horrors of what they paid for.
I prefer to read prose of the pros for each knows
every foible, their highs and their lows;
when they disagree, then it’s left up to me—
though my confidence ebbs and it flows.
I become referee; those who know me agree
that’s the place where my best judgment shows.
Once my expert opinion’s culled from their dominions,
I come out ahead by a nose.
It’s not something I’ll use—no, I must recuse
since my cooking, in most people’s views,
is not what they’d choose: those who know will abuse
any the efforts I take to amuse.
They’ll tighten the screws, say they’ve paid all their dues
and they’ve eaten some old kangaroos
in much tastier stews, therefore they must refuse
from providing me kinder reviews.
It’s home now and vested; the sweet bird who nested
our eggs and put fledglings to flight,
will return fairly soon and will find to her boon
a new counter appliance delight.
Since there isn’t much space, I moved things from their place
and I hid them away, though in fright,
’cause she’ll ask, “Where’d they go!” and I’ll say, “I don’t know!”
then I’ll face the pet-peeve of her spite—
my spirit uncrested,
my choices contested,
the purchase protested,
not what she requested,
and though it’s not tested
(and she hasn’t rested),
I’m hopeful she’ll try it tonight.