O, sacred shelf of bottles bright,
The fridge’s hidden trove—
You humble jars of joy and tang
Deserve a hymn, a stove.
Ketchup, crowned in crimson red,
The comfort of a fry,
Tomato-sweet, the child’s delight—
The grown-up’s “don’t ask why.”
Mustard, bold as sunlit fields,
A golden, biting spark,
From hot dog days to vinaigrettes,
You light the way through dark.
Mayonnaise, so silken-pale,
A cloud that soothes and swirls,
When spiced or herbed or garlicked-up,
You hug the bitter world.
Soy and ponzu, briny waves
That lift the bland and plain—
With citrus notes and salty tears,
You brighten rice and rain.
Sriracha, glowing dragon’s blood,
You rouse the soul with heat—
Stirred into mayo, swirled on eggs,
You make the morning sweet.
O, bottles, jars, and mystery lids
Of long-forgotten dressings,
You save a meal, you spark a feast,
With every pour—our blessings.
So honor the Drawer, that magic realm
Where flavors sleep and mingle.
For every dish is never bland
With condiments to tingle.
[The congregation of midnight snackers and late-night cooks say: Amen, and pass the sauce.]
