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.
Comments