The Mix

They say too many cooks spoil the broth,

That space can get clustered too easily.

My place of happiness is one not too far

From my place of rest and my solitude.

The smell of fresh homemade bread is rising,

Filling the noses of mother and child.

Two sets of hands at a time hold the spoon,

Each child eagerly waiting to mix,

Five siblings, each wanting to help mother.

From eldest to youngest, round the kitchen.

My happiest memory is cooking,

With family all round, smiles were relentless.

Baking cakes and bread with soup and dinners.

That is what I will cherish forever.