A Recent Dinner, in three verses
A bottle of wine from the Rhine
With scallops it paired mighty fine
There's nothing to cook
No need for a book
Just glasses, a knife and some time
Aubergine from a shop in Paris,
Thinly sliced, cooked in oil quite free,
Eggs mixed with these rounds,
Then cooked til quite browned;
The frittata was good? Ben mais oui!
The frisée came from I don't know where
Washed quite well and then dried in the air
With salt, oil, lemon
And fennel 'twas heaven
Salad's fine, for desert I don't care
re: Sam Fujisaka
re: Sam Fujisaka
re: Sam Fujisaka
Sam, How's this:
This morning I made me some hash.
Used some of me new truffle stash.
The door was broke open
The neighbors it woken
And then they rushed in for a dash.
From the room I did run in such haste
Not for me to just give 'em a taste.
They'd eat some and then
Run away to the pen.
So I ate all with nary a waste.
There once was a porkloin so lean
Not a bit of fat could be seen
I wrapped it in bacon!
No, no, I'm not fakin'!
My guests licked the platter quite clean.
I love poems of all sorts (product of a Dr. Seuss childhood). While I haven't updated my blog in a long time, a while back one of my dear friends challenged me to write a recipe in haiku form. It's at: http://wordybitch.blogspot.com/2007/0...
re: Ima Wurdibitsch
re: Ima Wurdibitsch
Okay, this isn't a limerick - but I just wanted to let Ima Wurdibitsch know that I always add some fresh spinach to my canned lentil soup - it works wonders - makes it fresh, green & nutritious! Even if you're nuking it at work, you can add the spinach to a glass bowl, pour the soup on top, press start...et voila!
(Can I write that again in limerick form...? Nah!)
Okay, Good Friday fasting has inspired me. Here's my Easter menu, in verse:
For lamb that is simply sublime
Take rosemary and garlic and thyme
Marinate a few days
Heat oil to a haze
Sear, roast and serve with a fine wine.
Asparagus is a great thing
The harbinger of sunny spring
Some bacon and leeks
Or perhaps some pork cheeks
Will make all at table just sing.
Potatoes that lowly repast
Are often by others outclassed
But add butter and cheese
And cream if you please
And Ghandi himself would break fast.
ROFL! I can visualize this happening! (Did it happen yesterday?) I had to cover my lamb last night before I went to eat. One of the cats was hiding in the bathroom (off the kitchen) just waiting for her chance to counter-surf.
ETA: I *LOVE* this thread. I'm nowhere near clever enough to come up with a limerick - especially a recipe one! - so I'll just enjoy it from afar.
Is there a way to nominate this for best thread ever?! I love it! And some of you Chowhounds have mad skills.
Here is my modest contribution:
Boy, how I love those pertaters!
Like latkes made with a hand grater
Be careful to drain
Again and again
Fry crisp, eat it now and not later.
I wish we could open this up to iambic pentameter, but upon the OP's request we will stick to the rules of the Duke of Donegal.
A Tribute to Beef Boy:
There once was a ball of ground beef
who refused the meatloaf motif.
"Don't bake me!" he cried
So I gladly complied
And tartared him, to his relief.
Ooops! It's supposed to be "recipes". Okay. To rephrase:
Take some beef, and run through the grinder
add breadcrumbs and egg as a binder
Bake at medium heat
'til the juices run neat...
He was right. Tartare would be kinder."
While both methods hinted of pain,
the problem was: Beef Boy was vain.
Afraid of both Frying
and oven-heat Drying
As Tartare, his juice he'd retain.
The constraints of the limerick are good,
especially when talking 'bout food.
Terse focus, with brevity
mixed sometimes with levity
Keeps the recipe brief, as it should.
That don't mean I'd not love to ramble
in free verse 'bout "eggs that I scramble."
But the rules of "the Lim"
keep the verse tight and trim.
There's plenty of room to still amble.
(Rather than trying to top the wonderful ones above, I will add my childhood creation, penned by me, at age 7 when I discovered limericks:)
There once was a silly old goose
Who drank nothing all day but juice
So out of her fret
She bought a toilet
And from it she made good use
...how I have remembered it all these years I will never know...
Bechemel -- what the hell.
Melt some fat to make a good roux;
Add some flour, a teaspoon or two;
Wisk in milk or some cream,
In a slow, steady stream,
Let it thicken, and then you are through.
Or expand on this versitile dish.
Add nutmeg or cheese, if you wish.
Dried beef would be cool --
There's really no rule --
Amost anything would be delish!
Not a limerick, I know, but from my blog last year:
My Ode to Duck Fat.
Had we but world enough, and time,
Every dish would be made of thine!
We would sit down and think which way
To cook with thou, everyest day.
In the 'fridge, by the home made pesto's side
Shouldst there I find you.
Your vegetable love should grow
Vaster than braising, and more slow;
An hundred years should go to praise
The sheen you givest to a red-wine glaze;
Two hundred to you and lemon zest,
But thirty thousand to the rest;
An age at least to every part,
And the last age should show your heart.
For, Duck Fat, you deserve this state,
Nor would I cook at slower rate.
But at my back I always hear
Hungry children hurrying near;
And yonder all before us lie
Deserts of fast foodie-ty.
Thy beauty shall no more be found,
in a Macca's chain, ne'er shall sound
Your oleaginous song: then worms shall try
That long preserved confit,
And your quaint flavour turn to dust,
And into ashes all my lust:
KFC's fine and private place,
But Subway, I think, do not you, embrace.
Now therefore, while the oleaginous hue
Sits on thy skin like morning dew,
And while thy salivating tongue transpires
At every pore with wood-fired ovens' fires,
Now let us sautee while we may,
And we'll get to use our Le Creuset ,
Rather at once our Chats devour
Than languish in the slow-cooker's power.
Let us roll all our Rosemary and all
Our Maldon Sea Salt up into one ball,
And tear your pleasures with rough strife
Forgetting what you'll do to our cholesterol, for life:
Thus, though we bought you for a hefty price,
you'll go SO well with Arborio rice!
Apologies to Andrew Marvell.
The only new recipe I've seen
was for subduing the flatulent bean.
It said to rinse thrice
and add lots of spice
But my farts still turned out pretty mean.
(Foodfuser attended a gathering last night where bean dishes were judged, and I over-ingested in my jurisprudal purview. I apologize for "popping off" in this 10 a.m. limerick.)
re: Sam Fujisaka
re: Sam Fujisaka
Good one, fern!
I too was raised in similar ranks of dinnertime manners:
Each family has that stealthy sibling
who "lets one go" while we're all nibbling.
We all look around;
It's the funnest of family quibbling.
One can go through life farting, you see,
If you've mastered that mean "SBD".
Just stay stoic and smart
as your wind you impart
And for years you can get off Scot-free.
Today when we meet for the holidays
and talk always turns to those latterdays
Each sib' claims the place
of the "SBD Ace"...
Our myth of that farter will always blaze.
It's possible that real truth be:
EACH mastered that foul SBD
So jostling for position
in this family tradition
Is moot: It's genetic, you see.
That is sweet, cimui.
My Dad was pretty good with eggs, but he had a weird fascination for BisQuik. When we saw him reaching into "that cabinet" with a crazed look in his eye in the morning we knew that the dreaded "drop biscuits" were on the way.
But hey... he survived the Normandy invasion and is still healthy on this earth and his new wife is an excellent cook but she shares that yes he still tries to make drop biscuits. I say that he deserves to keep that quirk. Here's to you, Dad.
Here's thanks for your making drop biscuits...
the BisQuik, your glee as you whisked it.
They emerged as charred stones
dense heavy dough scones
But you taught us that butter would fix it.
My dad was also in Khaki.
Stationed beside Nagasaki
That memory's traumatic
For a fried egg fanatic.
And he still cannot bear to drink saki
He describes being in the army of occupation, seeing the whole city laid waste. The shadow of a man blasted on a wall. The first shops being re-built on the high street, like a Hollywood film set, step between the buildings and to the horizon all he could see was rubble.
The one advantage is that after returning to Liverpool he developed an affection for Chinese food.
Ode to Breakfast #7
Scald some milk, then let cool to 110.
Whisk in lactobacillus and then
Let it sit where it's warm
(Overnight is the norm).
Yogurt this good makes me shout "Amen!"
Mix up oatmeal, brown sugar, oil,
Maple syrup and nuts, spread on foil.
Cinnamon I'll devour
Bake it for half an hour.
Great granola takes nearly no toil.
The best part, as I'm sure you've awaited,
Is to drink once your hunger is sated.
A nice Earl Grey tea
Milk and sugar for me
Days go better when you're caffeinated.
That was fun. Thanks all above for the laughs!!!
There's a fish fry coming up, and we're promised some catfish from a fellow who always makes his limit of channel cat.
Thus the limerick:
When catfish is fried, and some 'taters,
The sides should be slaw and sliced 'maters.
A guest who cooks light
should decline the invite
'Cuz we use tartar sauce by the slathers.
This one came to me around 3 AM, when I was woken from sound sleep by a bout of SEVERE gastrointestinal distress.
My tounge/tastebuds strong pleasure volition
Is at odds with my stomach's condition
One says feast, one says fast
Don't know If I'll outlast
This nutrional war of attrition.
and in counter (yes it know the rhyme's aren't perfect)
Cato gave the best diet advice
when he said "eat to live; not verse vise"
But this plan I abjure
for who wants to endure
food without variety's spice.
Ti Guan Yin is my brew day to day;
Fine high mountain jade my weekends play
But on days most auspicios
demand tea most delicios
on those days, its Tie lo Han all the way
From my previos verse you will see
Tie lo Han is my favorite tea
though my love for it bubbles
Getting good can have troubles
so I sometimes settle for Rou Gui
Cheap and dark Red Label tea
Is sometimes fine for me
I warm myself in the sun
And let my thoughts just run
Gentle peace and slooow, you see.
For a spur to action
Lapsang Souchong gives satisfaction
With a strong smoky note
It smells like creosote
Other people have an adverse reaction.
For friendly talk and no commotion
Tea with bergamot is my notion
A drop of honey in the tea
Gives smooth sweetness for me
And all within my view is fine formation.
Does it bother anyone else that a significant number of these are not limericks because although they use the A-A-B-B-A rhyme scheme, they don't have proper meter? Meter in a limerick is always:
The occasional run-on last line is acceptable when it's done for comic effect (like Gio's "There was an old man from Milan..."), but otherwise, da rules is da rules!
Or is it just me being my usual pedantic self?
There are rules to be used as you say
How-ever crea-tive minds lay.
But here at Chowhound
It soon will be found
There are those who simply won't play.
As for food I might like to cook
I search my most favorite cookbook.
It's always at hand
Like a grand sous chef band,
The meal's done by hook or by crook
Perhaps we could use this humble definition as a starting point:
"The standard form of a limerick is a stanza of five lines, with the first, second and fifth having eight or nine syllables and rhyming with one another, and the third and fourth having five or six and rhyming separately. Lines are usually written in the anapaestic meter, but can also be amphibrachic."
Gosh, I sure wish I knew what that means.
All I know is: I write about beans.
If I clean up my act
with decorum and tact
I'll tone down to frisee and spring greens.
Gosh, I sure wish that I understood that.
Thems big words; I just came here to chit chat
Sure, the meter is Irish
But I'm not too aspirish
to get rhythm just perfect and down pat.
As to purity of limerical form while in this forum, i would propose a simple mindset of forgiveness for us sometimes breaking the amphibrachic, with corollary cheers when someone grabs the brass ring.
The limerick is a joy for us rabble;
it's just organized humorous babble.
The difficult part
(Once you get a good start)
is to accent the just-right syll-AB'le.
The limerick really comes down to remembering the phrase:
"There ONCE was a MAN from NanTUCKet". (That's the rhythm and accent of "A".)
Then the complete AABBA, where "B" is shorter, 6 syllables:
one two THREE one two THREE:
There once was a man from Nantucket
Who kept all his cash in a bucket.
But his DAUGHter, named NAN,
Ran aWAY with a MAN
And as for the bucket, Nantucket.
These might help:
an·a·pest also an·a·paest (n-pst)
1. A metrical foot composed of two short syllables followed by one long one, as in the word seventeen.
2. A line of verse using this meter; for example, "'Twas the night before Christmas, when all through the house" (Clement Clarke Moore).
In English stress-based poetry, an amphibrach is a stressed syllable surrounded by two unstressed syllables. It is the main foot used in the construction of the limerick, e.g., "There was a | young lady | of Wantage"
Please forgive the pedantry.
The limerick is a favorite form, first introduced to me by a fourth grade teacher who was a fount of early feminism. Her recent funeral was attended by hundreds. She is still remembered and discussed.
One day she managed to find a private one minute moment with me within the whirl of activity in her classroom, while I was working limericks, and she winked "you know, these are the types of poems where people get rowdy.. that's what they're known for."
What a gift from the greatest of teachers.
That is NOT the Nantucket limerick I know. My FIL actually started collecting limericks during WWII, and we have a ton of yellow-ruled paper on which he hand wrote most of them. They range from mildly naughty to flagrently disgusting. My personal favorite concerned "a young man from Mass".
I found early on that I had a very strange ability to "think" in limerick, much like FoofFuser. I can pop out a limerick in a few minutes on almost any topic. Some might call it a gift, but it can be VERY annoying when you can't get your brain out of the limerick rut. I can also belch on command. Sad.
Limericks in general do tend to the blue. I have a delightful book, originally published some 45 years ago, that contains hundreds of them, and as it says on the cover, "This is the largest collection of limericks ever published, erotic or otherwise. Of the 1700 printed here, none is otherwise."
It's great that we got a few people together who know and care about the form and are sharing the nuts and bolts AND the cover stories. I think having "flexible" meter counts is standard and accepted. From recent info I've gotten on the subject, haiku is also not entirely rigid on count.
It's funny the stuff that everybody hated to learn becomes interesting and useful later. Last year I bot a book about diagramming sentences. I think I set it aside right after I found what appears to be a mistake in her diagram. TeeHee I guess that dates me! When did they quit diagramming sentences in school?
And I recently dedicated a book at the local library to a favorite English teacher who passed.
And then came to this thread: Bob B,
Who attempted to thwart all our glee.
With a stroke of his pen
He reminds us again-
What the rules of this rhymin' should be.
So I think I shall try, mightily
To come up with something more fully,
In line with the rules-
My brain has the tools...
But now is behaving unduly.
In time I'll attempt to correct
All previous poems that were blech.
But I'll say it again
There's a pain in my head
And dinner's not ready quite yet...
cc -- here's a free online rhyming dictionary, and i entered "nantucket". some rhymes are obviously better than others, but...you get the idea. fun (and *another* time waster!)
there are also other free offerings. i love the internet!
edit: oh goodness, looky here at this resource! http://dictionary.langenberg.com/
Oh noooooooo!!!!!! Alkapal!!! You've opened the floodgates!!! As Prometheus brought fire to Man, ye hath empowered with rhyme!
This thread once was safe from the masses,
who before, thought that butts rhymed with asses.
Now this thread they will fill,
they'll keep posting until
our computers run slow as molasses
But perhaps, that's how it should be.
Let those non-rhyming hounds share our glee.
Now that all can give limerick
the posts will be so thick
We'll be reading till midnight, hee hee!!!
Ode to FF
I have to admit that FoodFuse
Is everyone's own special muse.
The rhymes are inspred!
We never get tired,
Of a high that is better than booze.
Are Lim'ricks your fav'rite dish?
Better than choc'late or fish?
You're compelled to create
Lines served up on a plate,
Presented whenever we wish.
Bemusing the dilemma of the fashion models who restrict intake to 1,000 calories per day, with segue acknowledgment to the cheese souffle:
Supermodels are slim, svelte, and slinky
But their food tastes can run to the kinky.
Daytime lettuce and peas
Can give way to night sleaze
Of Kraft singles broiled over a Twinkie.
Thank you, but I shall gently demur. It's just that the burgeoning crowd has just barely begun posting.
The lusty limerical construct of AABBA (dealt with above) is available to all of us to joyfully express our love of the grub. I look forward to the day where the Mods are splitting threads to "Limericks about processed cheese" versus "Limericks of aged cheese only." I am confident that there is that much fun energy out there.
When them Chowhounds get down to production
of the A-A-B-B-A construction
They'll share their best food
with a similar brood
In rhythmical fun-filled construction.
ff, i was adamant when i started on the "limerick" form that i should be accurate: "The standard form of a limerick is a stanza of five lines, with the first, second and fifth having eight or nine syllables and rhyming with one another, and the third and fourth having five or six and rhyming separately. Lines are usually written in the anapaestic meter, but can also be amphibrachic.
The first line traditionally introduces a person and a place, with the place appearing at the end of the first line and establishing the rhyme scheme for the second and fifth lines. In early limericks, the last line was often essentially a repeat of the first line, although this is no longer customary." http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Limerick...
i thus limited my artistic entries....
Yes. In every field there are those experts who choose to keep a broomstick intestinally lodged quite close to their lower lumbar vertebrae. Said syndrome leads to the administration of wrist slaps with rulers, and denial of the case for the universal poetical soul.
When "experts" take rule-making position
They can frustrate a poet's ambition.
If they eased up a bit
Rhymes would come forth in natural fruition.
When you buy four turkeys at Novemberr discount, you run the risk of not making full use by the time winter savory dishes have given way to cooler presentations for the warmer months.
There's a turkey that's been in my freezer
several months: it's a certified geezer.
Can I use it in ways
that are not just fillets
and still have a summertime pleaser?
Thanks Bob, but for special reasons I'll need to pass:
I could see that a turkey meat jello
would be smooth on the palate, and mellow.
But my kids would wave toothpicks
to spear meat from their aspics
(Though they're generally well-behaved fellows).
I've had bad luck with things made like gelatin.
It gives kids that mischievious "gotcha" grin.
They'll place it on chairs
so whoever sits there
Gets their own special whooppee-like cushion.
So while gelatin dishes are good
For we folks who have reached adulthood
It's a "nix" in my house
To turn turkey to souse.
I'd Asspick it if I just could.
It's brawn - that's the British expression
For head cheese, excuse the digression.
This succulent jelly
Of pig head and belly
Shouldn't cause a psychotic depression
The secret of aspic production
Is the collagen and its reduction.
I've seen your technique
You use tongue-'n-cheek
Go make this exquisite decoction
My excuse for this praise of M.P.
is 'cuz HE's the original O.P.
He posted, then rested,
while our rhymes he digested,
Then burped forth in rhythmical glee.
It's obeisance, to a degree,
to so credit a topics' O.P.
but_his emergence from hiding
is rather exciting.
"Join all!" in this syl-labic spree.
There's never, in the case of "un oeuf",
a time when one egg is enough.
Whether boiled or fry'ad
I must have a dyad
Or by lunchtime I'm grumpy and gruff.
For the omelet, a separate law.
It requires oeuf aux menage a trois.
Three eggs are the fix
to carry the mix
of the onion and cheese and crab claw.
When Deviled, no numbers apply.
Stuff your face 'til you bloat and you cry.
Our tongues lap the filling
like pigs who are swilling
It's the last meal I'll eat 'fore I die.
You're ad'_vice is noted, quite duly.
At my age "it's a bitch" to re-tooly.
But yet there's a way
to avoid the hot fray.
I eat oaties with methods quite ruly.
When I move from nude dance floor to chair
I handle my oaties with care.
I take caution while swilling
That there's no hot stuff spilling
Thus guarding from malaise "down there".
Well, I just took a look at your avatar:
I'm impressed that the flames really leap that far.
If it's caution you urge
I suggest that you splurge
On a range-hood that drafts down... really far.
While your cautions that porridge might leave a scar
In those regions we hope we won't really mar
The flambe' in your pic
Gives concern that your d*ck
might suffer some heat that could REALLY char.
(Mods... forgive me. Situational Ethics).
Back to Basics: an egg recipe.
Devoid of all imparts to beans, farts, or body parts,
It's squeaky clean, as you shall see:
If you have farm-fresh eggs you should poach 'em
It's the best way to use fresh-laid ovum.
The whites firmly aggregate
Due to still-firm albuminate
Since they're really fresh, no need to coach 'em.
If those ovums have sadly sustained
loss of freshness (down the_grocery chain),
You can still make them coddle
If stray wisps you remodel
Use your spoon, and good shape they'll maintain.
Some vinegar helps with these older ones
to act in a way that inhibits runs
It slows down the roam
of the albumal foam
Just remove with a spoon when they're barely done.
While Hollandaise may seem the classic sauce
with its buttery glory and yellow gloss
The cook may one egg pull
And make a mouthful
Of exploding egg yolk. He's the boss.
Then he'll dutifully whip up the Hollandaise
For guests who are geared to the classic ways
He'll arrange the asparagus
and the bun Benedictus
While his tongue is still swirling that popped-yolk blaze.
To the closed face, grilled on two sides, quintessential sando.:
The American lunchroom "grilled cheese", for sure,
Has a white bread "processed_slab" signature.
It ain't haute cuisine:
fried in cheap margarine
But it fills a food need with a deep allure.
If you notch up the bread and the cheese
in an effort to snobs to appease
It won't be the grade
that the Lunch-ladies made
It's a matter of fond memories.
These days when I make them at midnight
I add mayo and pickle, but bread's still white.
I often use cheddar
but american is better
To give it that "grade school" delight.
As we enter this Fourth of July
With BBQ's, buffets, Fish Fries,
we can fuss with the menus
the dishware, the venues,
and Aunt Bessie's famed apple pies.
But it's 'bout more than birth of our country.
There's the love of our own special family.
So may joy of the feast
kids dashing like beasts
Be a blessing to all yours, and thee.
God Bless good families.
Got married the 4th of July,
At a fabulous picnic, oh my!
Just two hundred buds --
lots of food, lots of suds!
Sev'ral cakes, and even a pie!
The guests had nary a clue,
Til our best man announced "yes, it's true."
"They got married today --
"Now let's toast and let's play!
This picnic's 'cause they said 'I DO!' "
Shouts of amazement ensued.
Good thing there was plenty of food!
We drank and we sang,
Started life with a bang,
We partied til red white & blued.
July 4th, 1976: 33 years of fireworks.
Fourth of July leftovers, revised and revisited on the next days meal:
There were so many leftover Brats
we sliced/sauted them in the pot
Then added some beans
and some spices so mean
Beanie-Wienies just lost their top spot.
Grilled corn we just stripped off the cob
Tossed in salt and some creme fraiche, a blob.
Added peppers, drained maters
Cooked then chilled it for later
It pleased all but our haughtiest snob.
But the favorite by far, truth be said
was the BBQ'd chicken, made spread.
With pulsed veggies and mayo
it was more than okay'o
And folks loved it when smeared on some bread.
Yes, Fridays get somewhat confusing:
To plan weekend menus takes some musing.
Should I shop the loss leaders?
Or blow budget, as feeder?
and my credit card thus over-using.
Since last week was a shoveling feast,
this weekend things might be decreased.
I'll focus on pricing
but take pleasure in dicing
season's veggies that cost near the least.
If frugality peaks as the goal
your skills rise to their greatest role
You'll sniff veggies for value
use stored items that are due
And bring forth some food from the soul.
If it ever stops raining near here
I'll go out to pick veggies so dear.
I hope all's not lost.
T'is a terrible cost.
To dig, plant, then lose all this year.
It was all arranged beforehand.
Dinner would be from the land.
Tomatoes so lush,
Lettuce so plush
Instead it's off to the farm stand.
When cooking d'you pass through these phases?
Like Vietnamese bouillabaises?
From far distant nations.
That rarely attract any praises?
In my head I have an illusion
I can blend, meld and mix a profusion.
Of spices ( far east)
With a beast now deceased.
I'm a master of catering fusion.
Alas my amazing confection
Falls short of envisioned perfection.
I though I would savour
Those textures and flavour.
Instead I must deal with rejection.
No recipes, just a few trifles. Forgive me, I’m feeling warm and fuzzy today...(and apologies to any and all slighted posters)
To jfood or Sam Fujisaka
c oliver, Will Owen or alka (pal)
to name just a few
and all the rest too,
have you ever eaten alpaca?
Applehome and davwud might fight
over where they should eat of a night
but when it all ends
I believe we’re all friends
debating this “stuff” on this site.
An homage to the Alice Waters breakfast (as prepared for Leslie Stahl on "60 Minutes")--and made by yours truly this morning with eggs laid yesterday at our neighbor's farm:
Farm-fresh eggs, of course, were required
For a breakfast that Alice inspired
Greens and herbs from the deck
On ciabatta--aw, heck!
Such a feast has been all I've desired!
That was a wonderful 60 Minutes segment. Breakfast from a champion.
Leslie clearly lost all her defenses
when those eggs overwhelmed her five senses.
She balked that most folks
would accept lesser yolks
based on time of prep and the expenses.
Then Leslie got yolk on her face
in a manner that has no disgrace.
She chowed down that meal
with on-camera zeal
and her napkin all traces erased.
So if Kattyeyes true has the hankerin'
To repeat the feast fixed by said champion
Then go for your dreams
with bread herbs eggs and greens.
Just remember to wipe with your nap-i-kin.
Made it again this morning. Cheers to you, FoodFuser AND dear Alice Walters! And dig my cute little egg pan! :)
P.S. If there were a platinum star or blue ribbon for best of this thread, you'd be wearin' it, my brother. Keep 'em comin'! (Whatever happened to part 2?)
When the temps stay at "Hundred and five"
Then the meals and the bev's just must jive
with the horrible heat
that's a griller's defeat:
We just want to stay cool inside.
Long derided, there's a beauty in Jello.
It slides down the gullet as smooth snow.
Chopped cherries and berries
whipped cream makes it marry.
Add walnuts, it's ready to go.
Congealed salads that filled yonder lore
Had their purpose when temperatures soar.
The slick slurp of Jello
Is incredibly mellow
It's a dish that engenders: "Please, more!"
Today is another hot scorcher
with temps that will certainly torture
As the Orb starts its rise
in the easternmost skies
the homonyms come: "torture"... "torcher".
But there's no time to dally with word game
when Apollo will soon fully inflame
and last all the day
in an oppressive way...
'Til heat wave breaks, more of the same.
At this dawn of another hot day
I arise seeking ways to allay
this unbearable heat
"One-oh-five"'s the repeat
Of a forecast that seems here to stay.
I open the fridge, check within
for what juiceables lie in the bin.
I hold the door wide
let those cool vapors slide
to bathe my already warm skin.
Those cucumbers seem most delightful
and those 'maters just ripe and all flavorfull.
Some parsley and celery
to bring the right medley
For a day where the temps will be frightful.
It's a day for a breakfast Gazpacho.
In the juicer the cold veggies gotta go.
I blend 'em and send 'em
into veggie compendium
While my glass catches all of the outflow.
While some might suggest a Sangria
Here at dawn I'll stay alcohol free-a.
Gazpacho's the king:
Salt, Tabasco for zing,
and electrolyte equili-bria.
Thanks, folks. It's a way to focus and discharge the frustration of this hot weather, hopefully in a positive way.
a'pal: the "blog address" is simply a clumsy attempt to give my email address in a way that it is not harvested by those rascally net-bots that collect, collate, then send spam. Give it a decipher and a try.
Recipe for hiding from heatstroke on day six of hell:
Well, the water's lukewarm in the kitchen.
Proves I ain't been just randomly bitchin'.
Even pipes underground
this damn heatwave has found
My clean skin has even started itchin'.
Today is the day of defense
lest we call the heatstroke ambulance.
I've made ice in the freezer
(I'm a prep-ahead geezer)
and just showered for first cooling rinse.
Late last night I harvested mint
in prep for today's cool event.
We're defying all protocal
and serving up alcohol
With the A/C cranked up just a hint.
There'll be ice placed in front of fans blowing.
And mint juleps will slowly be flowing.
The cool air from the fans
won't ruffle the hands
of the cards as we get a game going.
At 5 cents a point, it's gin rummy.
I've made snacks to support any tummy.
One friend's bringing whiskey
though we know it's quite risky
We'll sip juleps on ice, 'cuz they're yummy.
The only bad thing I foresee
as it climbs past one hundred and three
is the cards might get moist
as our juleps we hoist
in our ice-cooled debaucherous spree.
So for heatstroke we have the defense:
drink iced juleps, within common sense.
If my friends start to sip
'til their judgement may slip
I'll be rich, at each point worth five cents.