Listen, children and you shall hear
Of the midnight plunder your mother dear
Made upon your Frigidaire
And the cold-cuts lurking there.
Her eyes scoured the inside
She flung open the doors wide
And there she captured first the butter
Then the cookies, too of Nutter.
The apples, oh their eyes she spied
And laid the butter on it’s side
Then eggs, they too she then a-took
And laid it all down for a book.
That book of Julia, writ so well
Tales of beef and fish do tell
Expertly cooked and poached and such
Those dishes that she cooked so much.
The stories stopped her in her tracks
Of boning fish, of stewing backs
For stock so good her family ate
Pre-packaged stuff they came to hate.
And so this story ends so nice
She stopped, she studies, then used some spice
Her family ate, they learned the good
When food gets cooked just as it should.