It all started in the backyard.
Something fell from the sky.
A meagre trail of grey rose
across town. I finished my waffles
with blueberry-maple compote,
while wisps of smoke vanished behind me.
That evening over wheat beer and barbeque,
I watched fire blur the night sky,
like cold red ketchup just squeezed
from the bottle. Cosmic forces, I thought,
must have the earth on their front burner.
Whole neighbourhoods, entire cities,
have been crushed meteorically,
proof that these forces can’t make an omelette
without breaking any eggs.
What dark plan is all this part of, I wondered.
Then I got out of bed for some dark chocolate.
Yesterday aftershocks continued to shake
ripe apples loose out back.
Today Paris burns, but my kitchen remains.
The culinary art bears stoic witness here.
As final clouds of ash rise to block the sun
I complete a caramel-swirl walnut cheesecake,
an ultimately satisfying achievement.
But for the main course, Ragnarök, the End of Days,
I will simply bake one very quick and easy
macaroni and cheese soufflé.