Anne Burrell taught me how to handle a knife.
She never stained my finger red,
cause I made sure it was tucked right.

My family used to point at the TV,
jokingly stating, “You belong on the show.”

I used to serve hockey puck cookies.
The pork chops were cooked twice to death.

The smoke alarm warned me that someone else should do the cooking.

But Anne Burrell taught me how to chop an onion.
Keep the hairy end. Slices. Sticks. Dices.

She frightened everyone on the kitchen floor. The white hair,
her sharp tongue, the look that could instantly boil water.

I would have hated being on her team. I only watched because of Anne Burrell.

Now her red apron is passed on to another,
but they wear it differently. It’s not the same.

My cooking is not the same. Slices. Sticks. Dices.

No one points at the TV anymore, telling me that
I belong on the show.