'Making Quinche for a bunch of Military cops in Montana.'
Once upon a time,
I was a nonchalant missile chef
in The Military who worked in
in the middle of nowhere acting
as a cheer me up morale officer
in the middle of Montana.
I worked through comforting winters,
making them mack and cheese,
burgers, omlette and fries
to eager military cops
just wanting to get the job done,
go home and party.
It’s not so often they get treats
and I’ll always remember the
day I made them a quinche
right from the tenderness
of the oven. I’ll whistle
and feel the gentle cloth of
my gloves and cool hardware,
then make breakfast, then
go outside, take my smoke break
and enjoy the quiet morning dusk
of the Montana wilderness.
It was a Friday and the supervisors
were laxed, relaxed and happy
and what more Can I express this
than making a superb quinche
to capture this essential, basic
moment of camaraderie amongst Men.
I gladly get all the ingredients, the
flour, the butter, eggs and I make
the crust like a mother nourishing
a child. I can hear the sounds
of yells and snickers in
the living room as they watch
an episode of The Real World
on MTV. Night shift, is still on
and I hope the smell of
my masterpiece sooths their soul
to give them a good morning’s rest.
As I took my entree of the morning
out of the oven, swear words of
colorful tones from sh1t, fvcks,
motherfvckers fill the air symphonies
like mozarts, bethoven or The Rolling Stones,
but thats to be expected
in this epic world of structure and
gentle understanding which goes
a long way.
