the death of appetite is crock-pot cabbage
slow-cooked with beer and bay leaf.
this endless leech of purple into broth,
that sweet onion I subbed in for the leek.
my husband’s trusty crust of peppercorn
fireworks-fugging the closed-window air.
(he loves a big burst from a small thing,
a luchador bottle opener with blue plastic thighs.)
me, I like a red cabbage. I like a gold potato.
the carmine carrot with the yellow center. Tiny skulls of garlic.
this smell, of apples and cider vinegar
might be the death of me. I mean, pleasantly.
I don’t know why I made it. I wasn’t hungry.
I just need to chop things, sometimes.
tomorrow, it will be over. nothing to smell, to do.
only leftovers, waiting for the resurrection of want.
C. S. E. Cooney, Nov 25th, 2024
C.S.E. Cooney 
The resurrection of Want! I love it. I have cooked like this before—this sudden of energy to be industrious in the kitchen with absolutely no desire for food at the moment. I’m cooking for stomachs’ future.