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There’s something about the taste of simple food
A pinch of salt over grilled meat
A sip of chicken soup
That whispers "home," and "longing," and "forgiveness,"
And "I’ll never leave you"s
The sense of eternities spent apart
On a cloud-bed mattress
When all you could ever hope for
Was just across the little creek
Trailing down the grassy knoll
Through the evergreen forest
Through the windswept town
To the door where she waits
Smiling, with a bowl of chicken soup
I'm sure most people have fond memories of nights spent with family around tables laden with homecooked food. Homecooked food may not be the most delicious cuisine, especially compared to those higher-end restaurants down the street reserved for special events like birthdays and Christmas, but there's something special about the taste of simple dishes—a nostalgic flavour that even the greatest chefs of the world are unable to recreate at will. It was on a simple night, sitting alone in a cheap diner that I pondered this phenomenon and conceived this poem.