For the director of menus,
almost to the tune of "I’m a little teapot".
A mishmash.
A song for the little fry when they came to mother asking:
"Is supper ready yet?
We’re starved!"

I'm a little pea pod,

my tummy's green and stout.

Please leave my jacket zippered

or my insides will fall out.

I'm a chubby onion

my skin is brown and dry.

And if you dare to cut me up

I'm gonna make you cry.

I'm a little mushroom,

my head is white as snow.

My feet may smell a little

of the stuff that made me grow.

I'm a baby carrot,

washed and very clean,

but looking like a baldy

without my wig of green.

I'm a stalk of bok choy,

crisp and green and white.

Don 't call me 'Chinese cabbage',

it 's politically impolite.

I'm a little chicken,

but nicely dressed and spiced.

I'm looking forward to my bed

of snowy long grain rice.

I'm a root of ginger

and ugly as can be.

That often makes me bitter,

so use me gingerly.

We're the salt and pepper,

every kitchen 's grace.

A light baptismal sprinkling

adds flavour to the taste.

And I'm the Chinese soy sauce

and quite essential.

Every Stir Fry needs me.

I'm indispensable.

I'm oil from little peanuts

and feeling very slick.

By swirling me around the pot

the veggies will not stick.

I'm a spoon with corn starch

and don't have any taste.

But when I mix with water

I turn into a paste.

I'm the greasy wok pot,

with blisters on my seat.

Whenever there's a Stir Fry

they make me take the heat.

I'm a big mouth ladle,

my name is spatula.

I close our Stir Fry song with

a Chinese a-l-i-a.

(Final Chorus)

When we come to the table

we first should close our eyes,

and tell God we are thankful

for this finest of Stir Fries!

J.J.Kuntz

Fall 1999