Both are creative.  I found this poem while doing some reading. 

New York Stories

Like my mom before me

I knead my bread

Debate my persona, time choices

the kneading calms my mind

and prepares the next words I need to hear

The fabric continues. 

Like the scraps of recipes my mom collected, revised, and rewrote

I am a collector of words, experiences, revising with time

No depression era baby

my life is written on file cards

my mom’s was carried on by typing on a dignified yellow paper with an old corona typeset

Women of words

we knead our dough carefully 

choosing our weapon of choice 

we are the same

a New York Story with a foreign twist.