Comfort Food

Write a poem a person might actually cook from, but it has to be about something beyond just food.  It should be a poem as well as a recipe.

There are days when, 

in my hunger,

I could open my mouth

and eat the whole world,

but even that would not my assuage

the deep and unbidden craving,

so I settle for sliced ripe tomatoes

and thick slabs of buffalo mozzerella

circling the plate,

to which I add

a handful of chopped onion,

a sprinkle of balsamic vinegar,

a splash of oil,

several leaves of fresh basil,

and a mere dash of black pepper

Eaten slowly

it comes close to satisfying

that gnawing ache inside

that yearning for something not food

that even vinegar cannot reach.