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That Annoying Cow in the Dairy Section at Acme that Moos at You Whenever You Go to Buy Milk

By Robert Beveridge


We have placed a granite altar

between the heavy cream and the Irish butter,

basalt molcajete atop it, tejolote to the side.

Today's specials: short ribs three for ten,

raclette, elephant garlic. Baguettes

on the wooden clearance rack. Our course

is clear: raid the produce section,

chop everything we can get our hands on.

Sauté, sauté, sauté until the onions

resemble chocolate angel hair.

Flour, some of that Irish butter,

cream so fresh we ask if the cow

is in the walk-in. Pound a head

of garlic, marry it to parsley,

risk the wrath of the local clergy

to make it polyamorous with nutmeg,

asafoetida, just a touch of ginger,

use it like the entire state of Wisconsin

uses ranch. Dry-rub those ribs

with a mixture so secret the recipe

hasn't seen the light of day since Hildegard

von Bingen's dalliance with the anonymous

author of The Forme of Cury. Apply

in a clockwise motion, sing the invocation

just right or you end up with a tasty brick.

After that, into the fire, and nothing to do

but wait until you hear the cow come home.


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