New at IWP Books: Phyllis McGinley, 1941, Husbands Are Difficult.

death at evening

Scatter, O skeptical minions.
 Scoffers, stay far from our roof.
For Oliver Ames has opinions
 And he’s planning to put them to proof.
He is certain — and then
 He has read it in books —
That the best cooks are men
 And the best men are cooks,
So we’re going to sup
 For once, if we will,
On viands served up
 With an amateur’s skill.
Make way for the conqueror!
Hail to the chief!
That cooking is difficult passes belief.
And feminine fuss is a hollow pretense.
It’s simply a matter of common sense.

As eager as Old Mother Hubbard,
 Convinced that pure reason prevails,
Now Oliver’s storming the cupboard.
 He’s swinging the pots by their tails.
He’s raiding the spice box
 For pepper and clove,
He’s at grips with the icebox,
 At war with the stove.
There’re pans like a tower
 Stacked up on the shelves;
The salt and the flour
 Have hidden themselves.
There’s a knife in the garbage,
There’s glass in the sink.
And Oliver’s having his troubles, I think.
But (presently) food will be issuing hence.
It’s strictly a matter of common sense.

Soon plenty is what we’ll be rich in.
 We’ll feast like Lucullus today.
But was that a groan from the kitchen?
 And what is this odor, I pray?
And is that my dear
 Whom I dimly descry
With a smudge on his ear
 And a glaze in his eye?
And is that potato
 Supine on the floor,
With a trace of tomato —
 Or can it be gore?
And what was that clatter
 That startled the night?
Was it plate? Was it platter?
 And where did it light?
And who is it speaking
In dots and in dashes?
And was that our dinner? Well, peace to its ashes!
Come, Oliver, out of the pantry, I beg.
We’ll bind up your wounds and we’ll scramble an egg;
We’ll sweep out the kitchen while counting to ten
And no one will mention it ever again.
For cooking, my love — and I mean no offense —
Is largely a matter of common sense.