Side Dish

I’ve opened the no-name Australian Grated Cheese (made from Australian Milk) too early, like a cheesy patriot who sets up camp in the dark for another dawn service.  Snacking is hard to avoid once a plastic seal is broken. Now I have to open the weekend wine on a Tuesday night, then I’ll preheat the oven. I’m making my mother’s special dish—a four-ingredient Potato bake. No Dauphinoise or Au Gratin, nothing refined or reduced. Just a packet of French Onion soup and a greased-up medium tray. At the shops, I took photos of all the types of spuds to impress you, as if form trumps function. This dish explores the essential nature of this layered life. My mother is thinner than my slices, she mainly eats fish and eggs. We all have that one dish in us, that one often requested, the one we are known for. I’ve decided to keep the skins on as a personal touch. Mum adds a little sweet potato to hers, doesn’t pre-cut, and soaks the night before. How wet potatoes are once you split them? I’ve only used half the bag, there are only two of us and a single poem. Who gets reincarnated as a baby potato? Probably young liberals. This supermarket section reduces spuds to an action or hygiene review: mashing, salad, washed, or unwashed. The low carbs seemed redundant in the face of the dairy. Buying the light-thickened cream seems wrong now but it was on quick sale, set to expire in two days. The soup mix congealed a bit, there must be a skill to blending in. Things I do while it’s in the oven: briefly discuss Heartbreak High with my partner and stand-ups we went to school with, check out their Instagrams, and shop for Bananagrams with free delivery. This is not a French classic adapted from a Julia Child’s recipe. Everywhere there are young couples/future food identities, trimming meat from the end, endorsing duck fat in a pan. I’m not even adding thyme, sticking to the plan. We’re working with all the good stuff today, the essentials. The pre-grated cheese has no brand name either. I’m seeking a more streamlined assembly process—ways to reduce the impact of cooking time. A second glass of wine, a ready roll of aluminium foil. The key to it all is rest, to not eat anything straight from an oven, to let things settle before they are consumed. This online recipe says to remember to go for a jog afterward. I won’t be going for a jog tonight, that is not a staple of a Western diet. I think of your kitchen experiments, whether you chose the perfect side dish or aimed to feed six to eight. It’s getting late and I’ve opened the door too often, letting heat escape. The site says everyone is so healthy and vegan these days, as if cooking this is an act of culinary dissent. I don’t have any homemade onion jam as suggested. It can be topped with a sprig of parsley or an action figure. The need to dress the basics up is exhausting. I’m not sure whether this would be classified as a heart attack on a plate or a dream casserole. Food bloggers are dodgy travel agents. There’s nothing quite like a food adventure with a one-way ticket. 

_{Footnote: this poem was created using the Double act constraint as the starting point.}