Twas the week before Christmas, and I'm thinking food

Some pots will need stirring, some meat barbecued;

Sautéing and roasting and baking with flare

Seasoning and toasting the savory fare;

The children still nestled all snug in their beds,

While holiday feasting danced in their heads;

And mamma in her apron, and I in mine too,

Had just settled in to our where, what, and who,

When back in the pantry there arose such a clatter,

I sprang from my chair and knocked over a platter.

The cookies they fell to the floor with a crash,

As I staggered and lurched and fell onto the trash.

The gleam of the grease from my trashy elbow

Made a cluster of coffee grounds twinkle and glow,

When, what to my wondering eyes should appear,

But a magical stock pot, bang-clanging good cheer,

With a great big old smile, so lively and quick,

I thought for a moment I'd gone lunatic.

More rapid than eagles ingredients they came,

And he whistled, and shouted, and called them by name;

Now, Celery! now, Onion! Bell Pepper, you too!

On, Flour! on, Butter! We'll make us a Roux!

Now Chicken and Sausage! To the stock! Where ya been?!

Now dash away! dash away! Salt and Cayenne!

As dry leaves that before the wild hurricane fly,

The redolent aromas did mount to the sky,

Then into the stock pot the Okra it flew,

And Tomatoes and Corn, made their big debut.

And then, in a shaking, a sip and a splash

The seasoning and tasting, a dip and a dash.

In wonder I watched as this pot sought perfection,

And then my pot spoke with a jolly affection.

"You saved me from clearance; my life was kaput,

You saved me from tarnish and ashes and soot;

Your pots full of joys, your flavorful living,

You've brought me new life, now it's my time for giving."

His face was amorphous; distorted and vague;

His mouth when he spoke, would zig and then zag;

His eyes though were soft, despite the hard steel,

They sparkled and danced with a spirited zeal;

Bubbling with verve from the heat underneath,

The steam, it encircled his head like a wreath;

He had a broad base and his lid was askew,

And he shook and he rattled; then out of the blue

He broke into song, as he plied his craft,

Together we danced, he sang and I laughed.

With a tip of his lid and a wink of his eye,

I knew that this batch would soon satisfy;

The French Bread appeared and his work did not stop,

Then he gave a quick spin, without spilling a drop,

He added the Shrimp, and the bowls got in line

With a nod there was rice; we were ready to dine;

Somehow as we feasted, the bowls were refilled,

And when pleasantly full, the leftovers were chilled;

Then he sprang from the stove, to his team gave a bristle,

To the shelves they all flew, just as clean as a whistle.

But I heard him exclaim, ere he dove out of sight,

"Happy Christmas to all, and to all a good-night."