Chicken Cordon Bleu, Olily Hands & Outside


United States
42° 10' 14.7" N, 70° 56' 34.0476" W

Juicy chicken breasts stuffed with cheese and honey baked ham,
Covered in Campbell’s cream of mushroom soup,
Until I became allergic to mushrooms that is,
It’s now covered in delicious cream of broccoli soup,
Baked in the oven until the soup becomes thick and the cheese and ham meld together.
The delectable aroma filling the house.
This aroma, so distinct, didn’t just mean it was dinner time,
It meant that it was a special occasion.
A birthday,
A graduation,
A good report card,
Any excuse to make chicken cordon bleu, my beautiful mother was in the kitchen.
Blonde hair, blue eyed, the prettiest hands I’ve ever seen.
Cutting all the ‘yuckies’ off the chicken,
Picky eater just like Mum.
I sit on the stool, watching her cook, stealing a slice of cheese every time she turns.
Here I stand, belly full of cheese, the front door opens.
I run as fast as I can, feet pattering against the hard wood floor, running to greet him.
I jump into his arms, his hands smelling of oil and dirty as the underside of a car.
Rough, yet so gentle and familiar.
Pitter patter of their running in after him from playing with the neighbors, smelling of outside.
My nostrils filled with all of these aromas, although a strange mixture
So comforting.
Representative of my perfectly unperfect family.
Oven bell rings, the boys wash their hands, Mum brings dinner to the table.
Chicken cordon bleu, oily hands and outside.

Guide that inspired this poem: 



Never had chicken cordon bleu or much to come home to in terms of familiarity since we] moved a lot and things changed to often to become familiar in a sense but this reminds me of how i feel with graphite in hand. Its a soothing feeling and this piece embodies it amazingly. Chicken cordon bleu does sound good though, ever have latin food?

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