Cooking in the dark

I find myself looking in the dark,
for each and every meal; 
including the snack that smiles back,
though I cant see the appeal. 

They taste just fine, 
I do them right, 
the routine is cut and dry. 
Although I ask myself, "Just why? 
Why havent I turned on the light?"

It's not like I can't crack an egg,
or break some gouda in two,
but to see what I'm doing, the coffee I'm brewing.
This must be of somebody's terrible doing;
but this is what I was told to do.

My mother's mother sautes in pich, She julinne's at the hour of the witch. My sister is the sous chef under the canopy of the almighty nyx. 

I attempt shouts of aid, of remedy and use, but the sins of my mother are bound to her truth:

"But Maddie, my dear, this is the right way!
To turn on the light is to give up and say: 
I am unfit to cook a meal.
The coffee is weak just like my will.
To accept the helo of our surroundings shows terrible weakness, untethered, unbouding."

I turn on the light, all their eyes closed. 
They mince without wincing. Good heavens knows
how much longer can they stand the heat?
And see that this should never repeat.

-april 2024