In the quiet of the kitchen,
where flavours rise and fall,
I found a spark of mischief—
to let recipes
waltz with verse.

A whisk became a quill,
a pan the poet’s stage;
butter, herbs, and laughter
blending gently
line by line.

So here begins the feast,
where dishes dance in rhyme—
a little fun,
a little art,
and every plate a poem.