Beloved Intruder

Greater love hath no woman for her
man whom she permits without
a twinge of regret into that most
sacred of her inner sancta sanctorum
where her loving hands prepares
food for her family, baking
cooking, concocting recipes
written indelibly in memory
throughout the length and breadth
of a life raising a family and
hoping her example will set the
standards for their progeny. So
when their father becomes seized
with the magic of technology
that allows him to bake breads
that rival in his opinion those his
wife produced for their dinner
table kneading the dough in the
time-honoured manner of those
gone before barely a sigh escapes
her lips as she girds in forbearance
of another venture into territory
once thought her prerogative while
he pursued interests she had none in.
Now praise must spill from her
lips to his ears as he extracts one
after another of bread variants that
pride gilds with the gift of creation
as he turns that old adage of the
hen asking for help in assembling
the constituents of bread and none are
forthcoming, by critically consuming
just some and no more of his much
acclaimed bakery production. Sigh.