A howling wind and minus twenty,
sharp needle stings of icy hail.
Inside the massive house of plenty
my son and I drink Henning Ale.

Downstairs, the pantry, stocked with care
of all imaginable foods,
the shelves are full, no corner bare,
our pantry lifts and strengthens moods.

One hundred bottles of good wine,
Paulaner Pils and spirit choice,
a crock of Rollmops in their brine,
champagne from Henckell - their Rolls Royce.

And from the ceiling joists suspended,
a dozen hams, pork bellies, smoked,
this season's pigs whose lives have ended
and underneath, red cabbage, soaked
in apple cider marinade.
And pies and cakes and sour dough,
pink herring salad, freshly made,
through pantry walls no wind will blow,
all heavy stones, one meter thick.

A tiny window ventilates,
this smart construction is so slick
that in all seasons it equates
with isobars, it cannot freeze,
and stuff stays cool, will not go bad,
no mouse would come to cut the cheese.

The wind is howling as my lad
comes back with slabs of smoked pork belly,
and Schnaps of peaches, slowly aged,
we're leaning back to watch the telly.
Contented teeth are now engaged.

We ask ourselves how many days
the lady of the house intends
to stay away from her own place
when she comes back the freedom ends.

But while we have it, let us live,
the pantry has extensive storage,
and it will never cease to give
us items of exotic forage.

The logs are crackeling with joy,
outside the snow is one white sheet.
He smacks a bit, I say 'My boy,
this kind of life is hard to beat.'

Herbert Nehrlich

http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/our-pantry/