Ode to a Mixer

This post is part of this month's Rocket City Blogger's Carnival.

My mother set us up.
I thought that you were all wrong,
but she insisted.

Your ability to hold yourself upright
allows me to clean as I go
and prevent a kitchen full of culinary shrapnel.

Your friend whisk,
wiry but tough,
whips cream, blends eggs, and even,
once,
made butter.

And then dough hook
who kneads uncomplainingly,
unlike myself.

The embrace of your bowl
is large enough to hold
double batches of love and hope
with a dash of goodwill.

Isn't it awful when parents are right?