She won’t cook with onions, no

Cuz she don’t like to cry

She won’t cook with spices, no

Why in the world would she want to try

some kind of magic powder

harvested beneath a humid moon with fingertips and moist lips

singing saffron songs

or put some kind of thing in her pot that burns a tender tongue? Who wants to eat something that makes you sweat, uncomftable?

Oh no. Hell no.

Don’t make a mess in her kitchen with your spicy sticks and sprigs and powders, make you sneeze, stuff you can’t pronounce, stuff that grows in pots on your porch, what are you some kind of witch?

She don’t need your fancy ideas and implements or your comments, so come back in five when dinner’s served.

(I doubt you’ll be wanting to lick the plate and ask for thirds)