A Poem in Defense of Unfairly Mis-Judged and Allegedly Prejudicial Circuitry
I hang here sentinel, stuck on the ceiling,
An unsung guardian with no taste or feeling.
Yet every day I’m blamed for the chaos below—
As if I burned the toast or overcooked the dough!
–
You glare at me, arms waving wild in despair,
Like I conspired with onions to smoke up the air.
But I swear on my battery (though it’s nearly dead),
I only chirp truths—don’t rip off my head!
–
Toast, lightly browned, in its golden repose,
A microwave meal that never explodes.
Pasta boiled bland with nary a whiff,
And the gentle, sweet waft of a baker’s lift.
A dash of pepper? Go ahead, dare it—
I won’t even chirp. I’ll just grin and bear it!
–
The ghost of cayenne that rides on the breeze,
The cumin clouds that bring me to my knees.
Grilled shawarma’s scent? That smoky perfume—
You might love it, but I’ll doom the room.
Tikka masala? Oh, heavens no—
That’s when I’ll start my shrieking show!
–
A pot roast, as bland as can be,
A casserole bubbling with beige dignity.
Frozen peas, boiled to a mushy green,
Not an “eek!” from me—I’ll stay serene.
Preheat away—I won’t make a peep,
Unless your marinade starts to seep!
–
Kabobs that sizzle with a hiss and a pop,
I smell that marinade—and I make it stop.
Anything flamed, flambéed, or rubbed,
Triggers my circuits—I won’t be snubbed.
You say “heritage”, I say “hazardous air!”
It’s not personal—I’m just hyper-aware!
–
Plain chicken and gravy, that’s easy to take.
A grilled cheese, too? No reason to break.
Mashed potatoes? Absolutely divine—
I’ve tagged that dish with a “Safe Culinary Sign”.
But throw in a chili or Jollof surprise
Suddenly I’m the villain with glowing red eyes.
–
Anything that involves a splatter or flare,
Or where turmeric dares to perfume the air.
If it’s cooked with fire and smoky delight—
I wail like a banshee, though it’s not polite.
Not that I hate your culture, or even your dish,
But because sizzling means danger, and I don’t do risk.
–
So the next time I wail with a siren’s cry,
Don’t scowl at the ceiling or ask me why.
It’s not that I hate your bold, zesty flair—
I just freak out when it graces the air!
If you’d like some peace, get a fan installed—
A whiff of fresh air, and I might be enthralled!
–
I don’t mean to ruin your five-star feast,
But why treat me like the fire-breathing beast?
You blame me for drama, for flailing and fear—
When I’m just chillin’, sniffin’ the air here!
I beep, I chirp, I do what I must—
But do I get praise? No—just mistrust!
–
So next time I scream in my shrill, robotic tone,
Please know I’m just doing my job alone.
I don’t judge your spice, your recipes bold
But I am ever-so-quiet when the pan gets cold.
If you want me to hush, install a vent—
Or invite me to dinner. Perhaps I’ll relent
