Recipe limericks 3
Resurrecting the limerick threads 1 and 2..
I'm a sucker, a lemming, for a limerick
that slides off the tongue all cream and all thick
like a beautiful flan
that slips from the pan
and goes_down the gullet so sweet and slick.
We've learned in the past 'bout our poems:
If we want them remain on this forum
They can verge toward the crude
but must be about food.
So, bark poem with Chowhound decorum.
There are tips in the precursor thread http://chowhound.chow.com/topics/610864
of rhyming and meter, of which some may have dread.
But just pick up your pen,
and a limerick begin
of your tastiest sumptuous spread.
Limerical ode to the Super Bowl.
It seems every year that men meet on the field,
our gladiators, in pursuit of moving the pigskin.
Clad in hard plastic and flexible Spandex and Lycra
Joints wrapped in tape, for torque for that Mighta
These be our Athlete Arthropods.
Television coverage is by now most perfected
With cameras that shoot from every perspective
The goal-line of first down is colored in yellow
and playbacks of moments of moving the ball
are colored by good statistics and commentary.
But what of us warriors, resigned to recliners
Seeking corollary suckle of the next chicken wing?
Our butts move the leather in soft symphony
The creak and the squeak, has its own speak
As we reach for the chips and the cheese dip.
A Poem About Mayonnaise?
A Blender at the end of a stick,
will make you mayo very quick!
With all your ingredients at the temp of the room,
how could your mayonnaise fail to bloom?
If the width of the jar is nearly the same,
as the end of the stick then you're in the game.
To a one quart jar add the egg of a chicken,
both yellow and white and your mayonnaise will thicken.
On top of the egg way down in the jar,
add vinegar, spices and you will go far.
Now carefully pour on top of the stuff,
the oil of your choice, but just use enough.
Turn off the stick, press the egg to the bottom,
now turn it on and we almost have got'um.
When you see mayo at the end of the stick,
slowly pull upward that's part of the trick.
With the blender now at the top of the jar,
it's mayo you wanted so there you are!
Though Mayo's a matter of personal taste,
when it's around me it won't go to waste.
Finding Hellmann's or even the Food that is Best,
depends on whether you're east or you're west.
But wherever you end your food buying trip,
you always will find they have Miracle Whip!
There once was a cook, confounded by hard squash,
who knew not how to make rhythm nor rind of it.
How best to peel it,
or further de-seed it?
These questions pressed hard on his mind.
"Be not so baffled", said the maiden, handing peeler.
"Tis just matter of good orientation,
and also your angle of stroking,
as you lay blade to the skin."
That cooker of gourds learned a few new good things that day.
He was handed some packages of really good beef dogs
and was hoisted to culinary challenge
that where there are dogs
there must be some beans
Thus seeketh he must best combination.
In stealthy tradition, he began with the cans.
Cranking the opener as only muscled guys can
Freeing the contents
Then one final scrape.
Twas the spatula that finally freed up the canned beans.
Attention now turned to the slice of those hot dogs
he knife-crafted each to stumpy one-half inch logs
that he set to the broiler
to give them a brown.
After that flame was emergence magnificent.
He had added some cumin and onions to his matrix of beans.
Now he folded in dogs, and slid into the oven.
For the browning
For the crowning
Of this lustered, most elegant dish.
One final item was a draping of bacon,
which sizzled as ensemble pulled forward.
Oven gives gift
Tongues give atonement
Of this version of good Frank and Beans.
Admitted, were times
when, gathered for meals,
I was handed a wirecutter
and a big wheel of cheese.
Commanded by group mandate
to produce both thick wedges
and also thin slices.
Such mission disparate concerned me.
So I thumped on that wheel of cheddered casein
Seeking guidance of whether go wedges or slices
and yes, in that process, I farted.
Once was a Mick who lived up to his moniker
and focused on cheese baked with Mac.
He found many recipes
but figured his specialty
should focus on uses of leftovers.
After he'd mastered the original dish
his cravings at breakfast congealed to this wish:
He'd construct a Fritatta
to eclipse any Strata
Eggs, cheese, macaroni, God Almighty delish!
He considered the firmness of cold casserole
and how best slice slabs from the whole.
Finger thick he sliced them
and then he browned 'em
assuring that crunch would be a primary role.
Diced bacon diced onions hit the hot sizzling pan
After a moment, he poured eggs according to plan
then slid under broiler heat
to ensure a firm set
to the crunchy slabs of mac surrounded by eggs.
As clan ran to the table, the proud Mick named Mac
Knew his Frittata was really on track
since all ate with a chorus
not entirely decorous
As everyone smiled as they shoveled and smacked.
Hoist cookbook and place in standing plexiglass tray
in effort protect pages from the upcoming fray
But as you get older
and stir sauces bolder
You just accept splatters s part of fun play..
My favorite cookbooks are those been inherited
Flip through the pages to where ancestor delighted
discerned by the splatters...
which one has most smudges?
touchstone to joys of those now long departed.
There once was a man who cooked straight to the can
Just for this act they acclaimed him a Chef
They named him Chef Boyardee.
While most of his cooking really doth suck
There are good moments with his canned Ravioli.
Only with chopsticks to lift them.
Only with good coarse ground pepper
Only with Parmesan
I suppose we should call it it
Boyardee just made better.
There once was a noodle whose first name was "Mac".
Thus no surprise that his last name was "Rohney".
So when he was dipped in some simmering water
he settled right in to his role as a noodle
until he was bubbled right up to Al Dente.
Hints of Gruyere then hung in the air
as Mac Rohney just wondered what's missing:
then white sauce was whisked
and grated cheese added
What great grated potential there.
Mac just surrendered to that hammock of cheese
to float in the waves of the Cheddared Gruyure
All this to maintain
his illusion in emulsion
That quintessential he was "Mac and Cheese".
Imagine dilemma when here in mid-March
we seek solace in sandwich so affectionately known
for it's crunch of good bacon
crisp lettuce, smooth mayo and maters
Yep, it is old Favorite BLT.
Lettuce is rampant, bacon is there
Bread twisty tied..... what else is becared?
Heck, it seems like the maters are missing.
Time to push fist to the sky and eyes to the ground
in praise of our awesome delivery system.
With just curls of the rotating blades of canopener
the prize of plump mater be had.
While not quite the type of a great July Brandywine
it is gift of tomato can be had from the can.
Best if you slice it pole down to pole
And lovingly squeeze and also de-seed it
and then send from mind that it came from a can.
Time to unfurl it in all of its beauty
Ensconced in the ecstasy of deep-mayo'd bread
With good crusted bacon
and lettuce to how you provide
Emerges a sandwich rings to the gift
of springtime really darned good BLT
Confronted today with a real big pig liver
I seek back to those times when the hunter warrior
extracted this organ, fresh, heaving, warm
and took his entitled first bite.
What pulse to those days when arrows in quiver
were part of such important hunt.
Today we debark to array of the meat depart
and bring home our liver in cooled and sealed slabs.
I supposes it's best what the food supply imposes
but something inside me yearns to imbibe
in raw bites of quivering liver.
It is Christmas.
On eve of the feast of the original Christ
that's been tangled with beasts like Saint Nicholas
Can we simply retire for quieted hour
and reflect on the Gift of the Magi?
It was just those three dudes
who rode camels over dunes
following a star in the sky.
They loped up to Bethlehem
and there in a stable
a-toss with spent dung and stale hay
there shone a sweet soul
newly borne, softly curled
that would have a great change of affect on the world.
Though they're oft elevated, I sorta believe,
that the triplet of Magi's were regular guys,
with good sense to follow a shivering quiver
and deliver their gift of their spices
On this day of Big Feast
as we roast our best beef
and our taters and veggies and sides
Can we cock a soft eye to that kid in the stable
and the gifts magnified much more than just from the Magi.
The thralls at the Malls and all of their shopping
Have got me quite settled, that I must do some chopping
of good food and fresh crisp ingredients.
Consider the chicken.
That protein so plebian.
But yet when it's stuffed and it's tussled and tied
then roasted in ways to bring forth the crisp skin
it brings both saliva and tears to our eyes.
As I view the abundance in our great grocery stores
of beef roasts and hams and oh so much more
I hold to the cluck
of a slathered and tucked
renditition of a roasted four pounder chicken.
Of course there will be the required dressing/stuffing
and the whole house will waft with the aroma of Sage.
And undertones of onions, sausage, celery, rosemary.
as the smell begins quell of the crisping of skin.
In separate vessel
but not at all peripheral
are the makings of home-mashed potatoes.
And in another cleaned vessel
are the guts of the wassail
of really good giblets and gravy.
It seems that the concept of a Still, Silent Night
might be punctuated by grunts and by slurps and by burps....
I lay blame at the foot of the Altar of Gravy.
Here, the day after Tthanksgiving:
Well, there's gotta be something
to be said of a dumpling
That incorporates Turkeys and dressing.
Mine's a really far cry from traditional Gyoza
but the leftover ingredients is why.
Pulverize the cole slaw and bits of the turkey
into the matrix of leftover dressing
and use that as the stuffing
for a dumpling, seated in a potsticker wrapping.
The dipping sauce rings of the season
a far cry from soy and citrus seasoning.
Use the leftover gravy and those unctuous cranberries
to dip in... it's really quite pleasin'
Thinking just now,
of the big Turkey Day
At which family gathers to seek celebration
and cackle of whose mashed potatoes are best.
We may fail to remember that each of us, all,
Are here for the feast
and to face forth the visage of family beast
That encompasses all of us, all of us, all.
I know that the turkey, the dressing, are done
by loved ones who seek just traditional fun.
And platters well set
to accept the incoming dishes.
While I sure love the rules of
"Just taters and slaw"
I am bringing today
the gift of asparagus, for flavor. for discourse.
I lovingly shaved each single stalk down
to what might give them opening pleasure
Breached it with cheese
In hoping they'ed find it a pleasure.
There is beauty, as part of the recipe,
of lovingly shutting your mouth,
And instead take glee in their chewin'
Asparagus is new. and that's quite an ado
To loved ones a' chompin ', and slobberin'.
Made it before them
in simplest of fry pans
Not expecting the kudos and chomping adorum.
So easy to fix with hot pan and water
Such simple we come to asparagus sperars
Ode to Oaties:
Those cold temps just keep coming
so it's time to give focus
to the beauties of oaties for breakfast.
Most times I use whole groats
quick dashed in the blender
That still intact seed
has the splendor
of un-oxided oils, and vitamins we need.
I prep it at nighttime
and just keep it simple
and dump the cracked groats
to a two quart slow cooker.
I toss in some prunes and some raisins
'cause those plumped-up dried fruits meet the cravin's
that would otherwise be fed with cane sugar.
In the morning, when the house is new warming,
a great steaming dish of oat groaties awaits me.
I stir in a scoop of unpasteurized miso
to add those good microbes
and much-desired taste of the salt.
It's best to use groats
but next best is the steel-cut
then next the Old-Fashioned rolled ones
from that Quaker that grins from that pressed-paper can.
Whatever your choice of the source of the oats be,
engage them with great nutritional glee.
We fed 'em to our work-horses, so oats surely oughta' be
a best breakfast, these crisp mornings,
for both you and me.
Coffee my way
Coffee mug in hand
All sweet and steaming
Espresso with milk
The cap rich and creamy
How did it happen?
This wondrous time
I’ll tell ya, please listen
To my a.m. coffee yarn
Five am comes quick
I awake and arise
I make a quick pick
Of the coffee I spy
My cupboard is jammed
With the world’s greatest beans
All varieties I’ve crammed
In containers that seem
To be different
But how can I tell
The light has not come up
And night keeps its spell
It’s dark in the kitchen
I can’t see too much
I reach out and grab
The first bag I touch
On to the grinder
The aroma does lift me
On to the brewing
It’s automatic, so easy
Some say coffee’s a gift
Straight from above
I say that our planet
Has shown us its love
I heat the milk
To frothing and creamy
I top my fine brew
And sip while still dreaming
Cappuccino it is
I’ve got it right
I’ll function soon
Caffeined brain a flight
Sumatra and Mexican
Famed Blue Mountain
Honduras and Columbian
India, Java, Brazil
Whereever’s a hill
Cool nights, warm days
And what do I chose?
Oh no, don’t tell me
How could I lose
Why it’s Café Bustelo!
First frost is upon us, so I had to make chili.
Poblanos, both fresh, and dried into anchos
provided a warm bracing base.
And since just now Halloween
I had to add beans.
The simply done Pinto has grace.
Chopped onions, for sure,
but for deeper allure,
I added ground coffee beans.
Beef and pork diced
with cumin as spice
(Tho' I overdid comino real meano).
Then a can of the lycopene lift of tomatoes.
Then simmered a while on the stovetop.
Then out to the deck
to stuff said stuff down my neck
and celebrate coming of Fall.
Luncheon today has been culled from the freezer.
So, strands of spaghetti
microwaved to get ready
for dollops of sauce
that were simmered long time
Glomps of the Good Stuff
Tomato'd, spiced, thymed
Topped with grated Romano
and fresh grinded pepper
and layered with garden's
palm grinded oregano
It's simplest pasta
I'll keep make till I drop.
as we, and Sun, arises
It's just so melodious
to get some good oaties in us.
Good oat groats, well prepared
will take us to where
we can say "Heck yes, Top o' the Mornin!"
There's the beauty of Muesli
the healthier alternative to more fat filled Granola.
But Granola ain't really that bad.
But when read the ingredients of commercial "Granola Bars"
they're fat/sugar laden, and just try my patience.
Since Oats are the Groats that we fed to our horses,
they're probably pretty darn good for us, too.
In descending pattern, from bestest to worstest.
Here's the flow of the Oat.
Whole groat. Pressure or slow cooked.
Cut groats, sold as Irish or Scottish oatmeal.
Then the marvelous way that they've steamed 'em and rolled them on rotating stainless steel bars: "rolled oats."
From there we descend to aluminum -foiled packages that are labeled as "instant oatmeal". Please avoid those, and climb back up the ladder, to rolled oats.
I have a small crockpot , that daily I restock, with cut groats of oats for next morning.
Samuel Johnson once said, that the bucketed head of the Oatie feed bag was what nourished those numerous Scotsmen.
Things are simpler these days, when we peel paper can, and ingest our good oaties our own ways.
Yep, I'm an Okie, and also an Oatie, who gives bless to this, God's most beneficent grain.
Tonight we gave praise
to cauliflower braised
placed in Crueset
then placed in the oven.
It's a darn simple dish
but really delish.
The biggest decisions are:
"How to cut it?"
Often the cooker,
will break it down
based upon multiple florets.
Tonight , we just sliced it
from top pole, to bottom....
one inch slabs, longi-sections,
Then sprayed with a minimum of EVoo,
Each slab, sliced and sprayed,
was lovingly placed
into the hot fire of the oven.
Twenty minutes of toastin',
them I tempered the roastin',
with a half cup of water
and I slapped on the lid.
Cauli be good after roastin' and toastin'
and comes to fruition after moistly it's braised.
Then, water decanted, and strong spices added,
lid again off, to aid in the dryin'.
Now it's time for the cheese,
a sure one to please,
to be melted and browned
so that cauli is crowned
with a bubbling brown mixture
I'm partial to cheddar
when partake this endeavor
but the cheese of your choice
will damn do.
There must be white pepper
to give discrete flavor,
and I'm partial to the crunch
of coarse Apiads, too.
This is a dish of the Fall time,
though, once tasted,
you'll fix it
in Winter time.
with browned cheese,
has the power,
to bring lip-smackin' goodness to Anytime.
There's a potluck tonight on this Halloween Eve
I'm making rolled collards stuffed in the manner
of classic beef-rice- inside rolled cabbage leaves.
Our hot Okie summers relegate us to status
of hoping garden cabbage won't bolt in late Spring.
But collards are such a dependable Fall crop
such abundance of crucifer leaves they do bring.
They're a tough pesky rascal
that I prefer wrassle
with a trip to the freezer
and then, hit with some steam.
Rendered roll-able, supple
they make fine comestible.
Rolled like a cee'gar
with the beef and the rice,
ain't nobody gonna think that they ain't nice.
Especially when sauced with good canned tomaters,
and crushed seed of the coriander, cumin and caraway.
It might, just might happen, that there might be leftovers,
but that sure as heck ain't never happened before.
Preparation of Spinach, with a nod to the big guy, Grandaddy of greens, simply named Popeye.
He fondles the bag in the grocery store freezer
a full pound of spinach, just right for this geezer
who dreams of that time he was Popeye.
A muscular, pipe chewin' buff, but thin guy.
Nowadays his attention
is on muscle-mass retention
(and colon condition)
And cooked frozen spinach has both fiber, and iron.
He yearns for those days
when cartoonish he played
with his thin female foil
who was named Olive Oyl.
He'd chug down a can
of the spinach on hand
and Olive delightfully
watched his biceps expand.
Today, it trends more toward the frozen, than canned.
And Olive Oyl's been renamed to EVOO.
So just dress your cooked spinach
with a bit of Her essence,
and also consider a splash of good vinegar.
So back to the geezer
at the opened-door freezer
mixing intimate memories
with squeezing the bag...
He'll take spinach home,
let remembrances roam,
As he heats it and adds oil and vinegar.
Fiber, calcium, and iron,
and salt from dropped tear,
as his chuckles are mixed with soft crying.
He remembers those days
when he squeezed can, and chugged
and those big bulging muscles
from skinny arms were displayed.
Though simple to prepare,
complex memories are there
of spinach just steamed
dressed with vinegar and Oyl.
Not quite a Haiku, just a version quite shorter
of Popeye and spinach in his this final quarter.
Spinach grabbed from the freezer
by once muscular geezer
(That pipe-chewing guy known as Popeye)
Zapped, nuked, and be-sprinkled
with vinegar and drippled
with EVOO, in praise for his dear Olive Oyl.
His tears bespeak journey
From sailor, to savorer
of spinach and friendship consumed there within.
It’s been quite a an interesting week on Chowhound
With knife-sharpening and thread-locking all around
The conversations that put CH on the map
I thought I would indulge in a quick recap
Upon reviewing the threads, this is what I have found
The homecooking boards are settling in with the weather
And adjusting to the autumnal pantry of regions nether
Yes, chicken paprikas is quite dreamy
But, please, don’t dare call it creamy
The use of certain words have ruffled quite a lot of feather
The prohibition of such simple words had made my fingers stutter
When trying to describe a simple thing as a sauce made of nut butter
Much less trying to recall if I’ve ever said, “yummy”
Over a bit of cookery that has quite please my tummy
It was a shock to see how many words I now think twice to utter
Still, ‘twas nice to see tempers rise over something other than salt
As Goodhealthgourmet has kindly asked us to bring that to a halt
Of certain matters we know we will never agree
But old topics will come with new people, like me
(I never said, but I do think it must be the whole diet that is at fault)
Were we made to be all the hungrier by all this seemingly myopic fighting?
I suspect we were, as one can not live on a diet of sniping and backbiting
With the melancholy changing of the light
We lightly turned our attention to a last bite
And quickly sought refuge in a lyrical and humorous form of writing
We spoke yet again of the odd and curious ways we like to break the fast
Offering tips on ways to concoct the warm meal that is the days ballast
But it was surprising some had the chutzpah
To tell Rasam how to properly make upma
As we waited for the topic of how yolks should be cooked to come up at last
We shared tips on the best places to score spices when one can’t get to Penzey’s shop
And what, if any, foods are destined to remain a mere dish of beloved homemade slop
Interestingly, right now, two different posters want to discuss 7-11
Which reminds me, I for one think Chef Boyardee is a bit of heaven
And am I the only one who got my butt handed to me over diet soda pop?
Simple limerick, or something like it:
My heart was a’flutter
In my kitchen I puttered
Concocting my wheat toast and my jam
As I reached for a slicer
For the butter to spread ‘er
I spied me leftover fine ham
Mm, I sputtered
ham's got to be better
better than planned toast and jam
I wooped and I hollered
I snickered and swallowed
Give over the toast and the jam
I grabbed up me slicer
For the joint to cut her
But butter was slicker than ham
Like lightening I twisted,
But narrowly missed
The butter just oozing it's flam
The knife I did toss
What a terrible loss
There’ll be no more lovely pink ham
The dish it did clatter
The butter it splattered
And down it all went with a bam
O jeez, so much clutter
I gulped and I spluttered
And then I went back to my ham
The floor was awash
in a buttery gloss
just ripe for the splat of my can
I strained but I teetered
And my butt I near shattered
All due to greed for sweet ham
Ah well, I'm a nutter
a nutter, I tell ya!
Ham being better than Spam
As I slipped on the butter
I took heed of the matter
And vowed never again damn the jam
Hwaet! Praise for the prowess cuisine
For KitchenAid mixers, that baguettes bred
in steamy ovens, the perfect french one!
Where dwell the eaters of lutefisk
and many a mug of akavit quaffed
A-viking they went, in search of the one.
A-viking here, a-viking there,
they went a-viking everywhere
but never sign of the perfect one.
The perfect one, with crust so fine
A crackling crust! Food of Odin!
Loki-curst, no perfect baguette to grace
the dragon ships that homeward bound
Back to the icy dark Norwegian winter.
Hearty men! Strong men! No perfect one
but perked they up at thoughts of lutefisk
of akavittar, of torsketunger.
Sweet salted moose! And Smalahove!
and best of all, the hakarl of Iceland fame
Soon rollicking, awash with mjød
enbravened they thus, they homeward sped.
Hwaet! Thus were the men of olden days
Manly men of iron constitution
Bravely their food they faced
more or less!
When I started this thread a few weeks ago
I'd been spending good time with a good friend of mine
who was in the V.A. in a hospital bed.
So my mind was on veterans and the things they had given us
and the timeless sweet beauty of "Stone Soup" hit my head.
But it seems that the story that I had to tell
seemed a bit "Debbie Downer" like on SNL.
Limericks should be just fun as hell.
So let us regroup
and give fun to "Stone Soup"
and your metrical recipes that will follow.
There's a cadence can flow from deft cooking hand
and be shared to show others how to make it.
Since my meter has strayed from true limerick
let's open the breadth of this thread full systemic
and welcome all recipes metrically plyed.
Just wipe hands, and chime 'em,
with a wee bit of rhyme 'em,
If it's good Chow, we're really a forgiving crowd.
A limerical twist upon sharing with strangers, in the child's fable labeled "Stone Soup."
When three hungry soldiers entered the town
that was boarded for safety and fully shut down
their plea and appeal
was met with no meal.
Townfolk feared for their lives, with good reason.
The battle had raged for days infinitum
these three men were just the young yoemen.
Their bellies craved food
be it simple or crude.
But how coax it from folk who were hoarding?
They fired the town's cauldron and stirred at that pot
Showing peace, showing hunger, malevolent not.
The townfolk emerged
with a similar urge
wondering just what those soldiers had got.
"Stone Soup for all!" was the clarion call
from soldiers whose hunger had granted them gall.
"Bring cabbage, rutabagas,
carrots, onions, potatoes
We'll add to the pot for a great feast for all!"
Those items, and more, did surely appear
as the townfolk did slowly let go of their fear
and brought their abundance
for the good simple sustenance
of Stone Soup for all in Town Square.
This parable learned on my grandmama's knees
as I sat on her lap and she read books to me
bespeaks of a truth
so natural in youth.
It showed sharing could bring simple peace.