As you can see, this is a poem about crepes. I can cook these, badly, much as I cook up bad frig poems. And yet. Tonight making dinner, the ingredients pulled from the refrigerator (now you get it, right?), piled on the counter, the eggs, the butter, the flour. The not-officially-a-crepe pan on the burner, and I know that somewhere between 4 and 5 is the sweet spot for the heat. Putting the stuff together in just the right order, having discovered that if you do it any other way the crepes suck, the liquids first and then the drys and then you mix it all up. Although I might throw a little more butter in because butter. This makes them my crepes. It's like when I high-jack half of an 'I' for a comma or jerry-rig a question mark in a frig poem because the stupid kit doesn't have any punctuation, and why don't they, for god's sake? Right. If you're lucky the not-a-crepe pan is just right for cooking about now, so I take the ladle and spoon out exactly the right amount of goldy-yellow batter, and swirl the not-a-crepe pan around so it circles just so. And then the wait for that exact moment to turn it; too soon and the nascent crepe falls apart, but when you're patient and watch for when the bubbles go flat and the surface goes dull, it's perfect: even a bumbler like me can flip it beautifully. Still you know, through study and experience, this first crepe is going to be rough-looking; it's just the way of crepes. It happens tonight, of course, but we've also discovered something else: The first crepe will smell even more magically delicious than the next dozen, and taste even better. So good I would burn my mouth to eat this ugly example of a fresh crepe, smoothly slid onto a plate; if there is anyone in the world who could throw this crepe out, I salute you. And damn you. For as I dump the second ladle-full into the not-a-crepe pan, I desire the first hot crepe so ferociously that I tear it into pieces, and eat it with bare fingers, stuffing bites in my burning mouth, and indeed; it tastes amazing, it tastes the best of all the crepes, this first draft, this practice pastry. We're alone here in the kitchen, me, the crepes, and the words on the frig: We make of these ingredients what we will, and clean up the mess later. Or should I say upload.