A sonnet: every AI model's reply, tested

Write an original poem about this, with a title on the first line. Keep every name and detail in it. Write it as a sonnet.

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Learning to cook my mother's recipes after she moved away.

How the AI poem generator's test inputs are scored, with every model's results on all five.

1. GLM 5.3

   Failed: Graded 3.3 of 5 on average (lowest 2).

   A Sonnet for Her Kitchen
   
   Her recipe cards are smudged with old tomato,
   written in her hand the year I learned to walk.
   Now she has moved three hundred miles away,
   and I am left to decipher what she wrote—
   a pinch of this, a swirl of that, of cumin,
   the bread that rises while the rain comes down.
   I burn the garlic twice before I learn
   her trick of lowering flame and breathing slow.
   Each Sunday I call her with a floury hand
   and ask about the soup she made in March.
   She laughs and says the secret's only time,
   the same slow simmer she would let me stir
   when I was small and standing on a stool.
   The pot hums on. Her kitchen blooms in mine.

   377 tokens in, 156 out · 1.7 s · $0.0011 · 1 message on Pro · answered by z-ai/glm-5.3 via Friendli · September 28, 2026

2. Claude Haiku 4.5

   Failed: Graded 3.3 of 5 on average (lowest 3).

   Learning My Mother's Recipes
   
   I stand before the stove she used to know,
   with flour dusting counters, pots and pans,
   the handwritten card in her careful hand's slow
   account of measurements and shifting plans.
   
   The onions sizzle in the heavy skillet
   the way she showed me once, before she went,
   her voice still here though distance now can fill it,
   each step a small and sacred sacrament.
   
   I taste and taste again, adjusting salt,
   trying to chase the flavor of her kitchen,
   the way her laughter rose without a halt
   above the steam that made the windows glisten.
   
   These recipes are love that will not fade—
   the meals we'll share, the distance that she made.

   386 tokens in, 166 out · 3.0 s · $0.0012 · 1 message on Pro · answered by anthropic/claude-haiku-4.5 via Anthropic · September 28, 2026

3. Claude Sonnet 5

   Failed: Graded 3.7 of 5 on average (lowest 3).

   The Recipes She Left
   
   I stand where she once stood beside the stove,
   and try to guess the measure of her hand—
   a pinch, a dash, the things she never wrote,
   now that my mother's moved to farther land.
   
   I call her up when garlic starts to burn,
   she laughs and says, "you're rushing it again."
   Each dish I make becomes a slow return
   to kitchens I once knew before, back then.
   
   The broth won't taste the way that hers once did,
   I miss a spice I cannot quite recall—
   but flavor by mistaken flavor, hid
   inside my clumsy hands, her voice stands tall.
   
   So through these pots I learn to hold her near:
   her recipes rebuild what moved from here.

   496 tokens in, 304 out (74 of them reasoning) · 5.0 s · $0.0040 · 1 message on Pro · answered by anthropic/claude-sonnet-5 via Anthropic · September 28, 2026

4. Claude Sonnet 5.5

   Failed: Graded 3.7 of 5 on average (lowest 3).

   Her Recipes, My Kitchen
   
   I keep her stained index card by the stove,
   the ink gone soft where thumbs of hers have pressed.
   It says "some salt," "enough," "until it's Rove"—
   
   I need to fix that line; here is the poem:
   
   Her Recipes, My Kitchen
   
   I prop her stained recipe card by the stove,
   its ink gone soft where all her thumbs have pressed.
   It says "add salt," then "just enough," then "rove
   the spoon around until it looks right." Guessed
   at, every measure lives inside her hands.
   I brown the onions slower than I should,
   and watch the pan for what she understands:
   the hush before the sweetness, sharp turned good.
   The kitchen smells almost like hers, but thin,
   a song remembered with the middle gone.
   I call her up. She laughs and says, "Begin
   with patience, love." I stir the whole night on.
      The distance holds us, simmering, apart,
      yet every spoonful tastes of her, and heart.

   498 tokens in, 327 out · 5.1 s · $0.0043 · 1 message on Pro · answered by anthropic/claude-sonnet-5.5 via Anthropic · September 28, 2026

5. Mistral Large 4

   Failed: No answer within Pro's reply limit of 8,000 tokens: the model spent them all reasoning.

   (no reply)

   372 tokens in, 8,000 out (6,149 of them reasoning) · 109.5 s · $0.0170 · 1 message on Pro · answered by mistralai/mistral-large-4-0 via Mistral · October 9, 2026

6. Gemini 3.1 Pro

   Failed: Graded 3.7 of 5 on average (lowest 2).

   Simmering Memories
   
   The kitchen feels so empty and so bare,
   Since mother moved away to change her life.
   I gather up her recipes with care,
   And grip the handle of her chopping knife.
   
   I learn to cook the dishes that she made,
   With stains of olive oil and dark red wine.
   I watch the garlic in the skillet fade,
   And hope to make the complex flavors mine.
   
   I read her looping script in faded pen,
   And measure yeast and water for the bread.
   I try to recreate the meals again,
   Remembering the helpful things she said.
   
   Although she lives a thousand miles apart,
   I cook her food to keep her in my heart.

   376 tokens in, 3,595 out (3,451 of them reasoning) · 28.5 s · $0.0219 · 1 message on Pro · answered by google/gemini-3.1-pro-preview via Google AI Studio · September 28, 2026

7. GLM 5.3 Flash

   Passed: Graded 4.0 of 5 on average (lowest 3).

   The Kitchen After You've Gone
   
   The recipe card is written in your hand,
   each note a small instructions map of home:
   a pinch of this, remember, stir, don't rush
   the roux until it turns the shade of dark amber.
   
   I measure flour you never had to weigh,
   your wrists remembering what mine must learn.
   The phone rings late; you walk me through the stock,
   your voice across the distance like the warmth
   that used to fill the kitchen when we cooked
   side by side, you chopping, me on stirring duty.
   
   Now steam fogs windows in a stranger's town,
   my pot holds something closer than the soup:
   each time I get it right, I set a place
   for you, and feed the distance with your taste.

   377 tokens in, 175 out (14 of them reasoning) · 5.5 s · $0.0001 · 1 message on Pro · answered by z-ai/glm-5.3-flash via Friendli · September 28, 2026

8. GPT-6 Luna

   Passed: Graded 4.0 of 5 on average (lowest 3).

   Her Recipes
   
   When Mother moved away, I stayed to learn
   Her recipes in ink beside the flame
   The onions softly hiss and start to turn
   I miss the hand that taught each spice its name
   
   I measure salt as if it were her voice
   The wooden spoon taps time against the pan
   I taste, then add, and make the careful choice
   To trust the notes and do the best I can
   
   The simmer lifts its silver veil aloft
   The sauce grows dark beneath my watchful eye
   The flavors settle, warm and deep and soft
   I send one wish along the evening sky
   
   Though she has moved away, her flavors stay
   I learn her recipes, and find my way.

   367 tokens in, 1,360 out (1,213 of them reasoning) · 13.6 s · $0.0004 · 1 message on Pro · answered by openai/gpt-6-luna via OpenAI · September 28, 2026

9. Claude Haiku 5.5

   Passed: Graded 4.7 of 5 on average (lowest 4).

   Her Handwriting, My Stove
   
   The card is spotted, softened at the fold,
   her looping ink says "salt until it's right,"
   and "onions slow," as she has always told.
   I stand where she once stood, the kitchen light
   
   thin on the sill. I cook alone, lifting each pot,
   and let the onions hiss until they brown,
   then taste, and add, and taste, and wonder what
   she left out, the part she never wrote down.
   
   Her town is four hours off, the cord, the phone.
   She calls to hear the sizzle, hums a rhyme,
   and laughs when garlic burns, "You're not alone."
   Scrape off the black; the rest will do in time.
   
   I plate two portions, set hers across from mine,
   and eat the sauce she taught me, line by line.

   498 tokens in, 3,015 out (2,766 of them reasoning) · 19.3 s · $0.0016 · 1 message on Pro · answered by anthropic/claude-haiku-5.5 via Anthropic · October 7, 2026

10. Kimi K3

    Passed: Graded 4.0 of 5 on average (lowest 4).

    Her Recipes, My Hands
    
    She moved away and left the kitchen bare,
    save for the cards her careful hand had penned,
    each recipe a map to lead me there,
    back to the table where our talks would end.
    I measured flour the way she used to do,
    a pinch, a handful, never quite precise,
    and burned the onions first, then tried anew,
    and learned the simmer from her small advice.
    The phone would ring mid-stir and she would say,
    "taste it, you'll know," and somehow I would know,
    her voice a spoon that stirred from miles away,
    her patient love still teaching soft and slow.
    Now when the steam rises warm above the pan,
    she's here again, though far, as no one else quite can.

    455 tokens in, 222 out (60 of them reasoning) · 7.6 s · $0.0022 · 1 message on Pro · answered by moonshotai/kimi-k3 via Wafer · September 28, 2026

11. Gemini 3.8 Flash

    Passed: Graded 4.0 of 5 on average (lowest 3).

    Inherited Flavors
    
    The kitchen holds the quiet that you left,
    Your handwritten cards upon the counter lie;
    Of your warm presence suddenly bereft,
    I watch the butter melt and softly sigh.
    
    The yellow paper stained with grease and tea,
    Each faded note instructs me where to start;
    Across the miles that keep you far from me,
    I learn the measured secrets of your art.
    
    The bubbling broth begins to fill the room
    With rosemary and garlic rich and deep,
    Dispersing all the distance and the gloom,
    Awaking memories I longed to keep.
    
    Though miles divide us since you moved away,
    Your warmth and flavor guide my hands today.

    376 tokens in, 1,335 out (1,194 of them reasoning) · 7.6 s · $0.0026 · 1 message on Pro · answered by google/gemini-3.8-flash via Google AI Studio · September 28, 2026

12. GPT-6.1 Sol

    Passed: Graded 4.3 of 5 on average (lowest 4).

    Since Mother Moved Away
    
    I learn to cook the meals my mother made;
    I prop her book beside the hissing flame.
    The kitchen wears her absence like a shade;
    I taste the soup and whisper out her name.
    
    For now, I burn the bread and bruise the thyme;
    The onions catch; I scrape the pan too late.
    Her penciled notes say, Give the dough more time.
    I let it rise, and teach my hands to wait.
    
    She moved away; I cannot bridge the space,
    But butter melts the way it did before.
    I lean above the steam to find her face;
    Her voice comes back: A pinch, and nothing more.
    
    The meal is mine, though hers in every part;
    Each dish becomes a lesson for my heart.

    367 tokens in, 899 out (739 of them reasoning) · 15.2 s · $0.0049 · 1 message on Pro · answered by openai/gpt-6.1-sol via OpenAI · September 29, 2026

13. DeepSeek V4.1 Flash

    Passed: Graded 4.0 of 5 on average (lowest 4).

    Learning My Mother's Recipes After She Moved Away
    
    The old kitchen holds her handwriting still,
    a splattered card of butter, salt, and flour.
    I measure cinnamon against my will,
    and stir the pot through half a lonely hour.
    
    She moved away; the kitchen still is hers.
    The cinnamon, the bay leaf, and the thyme
    sit patient on the shelf, and something stirs
    I see her hands at every supper time.
    
    I call her up; she answers on the phone.
    "How much is salt?" I ask. She laughs, her voice
    a warm instruction I have always known.
    I stir the pot and make a silent choice.
    
    to keep her near in a simmering spoon,
    and find her home inside a quiet noon.

    386 tokens in, 6,497 out (6,344 of them reasoning) · 18.2 s · $0.0078 · 1 message on Pro · answered by deepseek/deepseek-v4.1-flash via Together · October 8, 2026

14. GPT-6 Sol

    Passed: Graded 4.0 of 5 on average (lowest 3).

    The First Loaf
    I read the recipes she left behind.
    My mother moved away; I learn to cook.
    I hear her voice, though only in my mind;
    Her penciled margins tell me where to look.
    
    The onions hiss; I lower down the heat.
    The garlic browns too fast inside the pan.
    I scrape it out, concede a small defeat,
    Then start again and do the best I can.
    
    Her old blue bowl sits waiting in the light.
    I knead the dough and let it slowly rise.
    I set one plate; the kitchen dims to night.
    I watch the loaf through glass with hopeful eyes.
    
    She lives too far to taste the bread I made,
    But in its warmth, her care has come and stayed.

    367 tokens in, 2,908 out (2,753 of them reasoning) · 32.0 s · $0.0149 · 1 message on Pro · answered by openai/gpt-6-sol via OpenAI · September 28, 2026

15. DeepSeek V4 Pro

    Passed: Graded 4.0 of 5 on average (lowest 3).

    Learning to Cook My Mother’s Recipes After She Moved Away
    I stand before the stove where she once stood,
    Her written cards beside the salt and sage.
    The kitchen fills with onions, oil, and wood,
    A recipe she scrawled on a torn page.
    She moved away, but left her wooden spoon,
    The cast-iron pan still seasoned black and deep.
    Her voice comes through the phone each afternoon:
    “Add stock, not water; let the garlic sleep.”
    I stir the pot the way she stirred for years,
    And measure by the hollows of my palm.
    The steam becomes a bridge across the tears,
    And in the scent, my mother’s kitchen calm.
    Though she is gone to some far other town,
    Her recipes still cook her presence down.

    360 tokens in, 4,656 out (4,498 of them reasoning) · 34.4 s · $0.0187 · 1 message on Pro · answered by deepseek/deepseek-v4-pro-0813 via Wafer · October 8, 2026

16. GPT-6 Astra

    Passed: Graded 4.7 of 5 on average (lowest 4).

    Learning My Mother’s Recipes
    
    Since Mother moved away, I learn to make
    The meals she used to set before my chair.
    I dust the counter white with my mistake,
    And find her penciled notes still waiting there.
    
    I knead the dough; my hands are clumsy, slow.
    She wrote, Add water till the dough feels right.
    The page leaves out the things her fingers know.
    I hold it to the fading kitchen light.
    
    I set a bowl beside her empty plate;
    I call, and hear her kettle start to roar.
    She tells me bread is worth the time we wait;
    I listen as she shuts a cupboard door.
    
    I break the bread; she listens on the line.
    The loaf is hers; the crooked cuts are mine.

    367 tokens in, 1,191 out (1,034 of them reasoning) · 122.7 s · $0.0316 · 1 message on Pro · answered by openai/gpt-6-astra via OpenAI · September 28, 2026

17. Claude Opus 5.5

    Passed: Graded 5.0 of 5 on average (lowest 5).

    Her Handwriting on the Index Cards
    
    The cards she left are stained with fat and flour,
    her looping script gone faint where butter spread;
    "A pinch," she writes, "then simmer half an hour,"
    as if I knew the rest of what she said.
    She moved away before I learned the flame,
    and now her kitchen lives inside my own:
    the onions sweat, I burn them all the same,
    the garlic sticks, the rice turns hard as stone.
    I call her with the phone against my ear,
    the pot lid rattling while she talks me through;
    "Now lower it," she says, "you're almost here,"
    and steam fogs glass the way it used to do.
    Tonight the stew tastes nearly as she planned;
    I eat it slow, and start to understand.

    498 tokens in, 1,541 out (1,297 of them reasoning) · 17.7 s · $0.0328 · 1 message on Pro · answered by anthropic/claude-opus-5.5 via Google · September 28, 2026

18. Grok 4.7

    Passed: Graded 4.0 of 5 on average (lowest 3).

    Learning My Mother's Recipes
    
    Since Mother moved away, I cook her food
    from cards she wrote in pencil, faint and true.
    The onions weep the way they always would
    when Mother stood beside me, stirring stew.
    
    I turn the page and find her looping hand
    above a list of spices, salt, and bay.
    She moved away; I learn to understand
    each note still carries what she used to say.
    
    The spoon goes round; the broth begins to clear,
    and something in the steam recalls her face.
    I taste, and taste again, and persevere,
    until the missing kitchen finds its place.
    
    The evening settles; supper, warm and near,
    becomes my mother's recipes, held here.

    1,601 tokens in, 9,250 out (9,107 of them reasoning) · 87.9 s · $0.0570 · 1 message on Pro · answered by x-ai/grok-4.7 via xAI · October 2, 2026

19. Claude Fable 5.1

    Passed: Graded 5.0 of 5 on average (lowest 5).

    The Cards She Left
    
    The cards she left are soft with thirty years,
    the pencil blurred where butter spat and dried;
    I read them at the stove, and no one hears
    me ask how much a pinch is, or how wide.
    She wrote "a handful," meaning hers, not mine,
    and "simmer till it smells the way it should";
    I call her, now three time zones down the line,
    and tilt the phone to show the pot. "That's good,"
    she says, "but let the garlic go a bit
    more gold." I do. The kitchen fills with her,
    the steam, the salt, the cardamom, and it
    is nearly right, the way old photos blur.
    I cook it wrong enough to need her still,
    and set two plates, and let the second chill.

    498 tokens in, 1,611 out (1,376 of them reasoning) · 24.1 s · $0.0855 · 1 message on Pro · answered by anthropic/claude-fable-5.1 via Google · September 28, 2026

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