Chef

I am ten
Watching
My sisters
Mixing pan
Cake batter
Thick to dip a
Half hotdog on
A popsicle stick
Into swirl and drop
Into the hot oil in the
Fryer with a French chef
Face on the end whose eyes
Glowed red to remind that the
Fryer was on and red hot though
The chef wearing his chef’s hat was
Jolly the red eyes were a warning
Oil spatters as the corny dogs
Are dropped into the oil now
Bubbling as the batter
Turns each corny
Dog a golden
Brown gone
Minutes
After it
Cooled
Gobbled
With a bit
Of mustard
A treat my own
Three sons loved
And even my wife’s
High standards on food
Would be suspended for a day.
As a kid I never saw the oil
Changed that I recall
But anything fried
Seemed to taste
A bit like a
Corny
Dog.