Therapy Bits

The pan begins its subtle song,
A sizzle, sharp and low,
As lamb chops kiss the iron heat
And let their essence go.

A breath of rosemary rides the air,
With garlic’s golden flame,
While fat turns crisp with tender pride—
A hunter’s feast reclaimed.

The smoke curls up like ancient tales
Told by a hearth’s warm light,
Of meadows where the lambs once grazed,
Now seasoned for the bite.

The kitchen hums with primal grace,
Salt mingles with desire,
As thyme and sear, in secret dance,
Set memory on fire.

It is not hunger, not quite yet—
It’s something more profound:
A scent that wakes the wild within,
Where comfort can be found.

So linger near, and breathe it in,
This savory, sacred balm—
For in the smell of lamb chops cooked
There lies a hush, a calm.

RDP SATURDAY: AROMA