Poetry of joy of the foods we eat.
Time for pure joy of all we are eating.
Expressed with a metric and rhythm
and maybe a rhyme.
No rules on the discourse
except it feel deeply
that it is a poem.
Mine now on handfull of carrots and radishes
as I chomp through
give praise to good teeth.
Garden good guide
of no need for no dentures.
Leaves of the radishes
Larger leaves flow from carrots
collected on morning
in seek of good crunch.
Love love love this, FF. Now you have me thinking. I must needs write an ode (or read yours, even) to the gustatory and aesthetic beauty of a ripe tomato......that burst, when you bite in; the flavor, the richness that's almost umami.....little crunchies from salt. Yeah, baby. Best foodie porn evah!
Awakened tonight by husband snoring and cat circus right outside the closed bedroom door.
Opening fridge door, with bounty within
Crock of pimiento cheese, brought to room temp in the microwave
Sesame Rounds, crunchy rounds with toasted bursting pod of sesame
And diet cherry pepsi.
Any Californian who eats PC before dawn needs to check out these threads, pumped by real Southerners, about Pimento Cheese.
But keep mind, this Okie, who was raised in the Delta, holds to the Unity of the powerful Trinity of the three sacred P's:
Pepperidge Farm Bread
Pepsi Cola, ice cold.
I'll suppose Californians can get away with Cherry embedded in their Pepsi.
Ain't quite Southern Kosher
but sounds it got job done.
Dip your spoon in those two threads if you like good Pimento.
Tuna from can, exfoliated with fork.
tines to the bowl give feel of good thunder
Mayo from jar,
As pickle relish
Simplest rendition of a good tuna sandwich.
Also gave add of flakes of dried onions
and just a teaspoon of mashed potato flakes
Try it. Might like it.
Final outcome hinges on bread.
After June where highs were never below 90
and ten days were over 100,
I've worked hard on my technique
for asphalt-fried eggs.
Wait until 2 o'clock
with sun just past zenith
and find you a safe piece of asphalt
where sun has been blazing all day.
Lay down an 8 by 10 thin piece of window glass,
let it heat for an hour
while you hunt down your magnifying glass (bigger the better)
and gather your eggs and your butter.
Smear thin layer of butter on now-heated pane
It will softly sizzle.
Crack egg upon there
and watch the albumen slowly coagulate.
The speed up the process,
it's time for the magnifying glass.
Aim it and adjust it
until it shows pinpoint
of blazing white color
focused on egg.
While underside still gets it heat from the asphalt
move the lightpoint in soft circles
to distribute the heat.
Remove when ready.
It is the ultimate "sunny side up" egg.
measured in cup
soon to be doled to the bowl.
Chopped prunes and some raisins
plumped in water overnight.
Big bowl accepts mixture of yogurt and milk
Then the granola, then the soft fruits.
First bite with big spoon
gets me to chewin'
As I settle in to peel
both orange and boiled egg.
The triad of orange, egg, fruited cereal
builds a strong three leg'ged stool
that will bolster my day.
Green skin red center holds the cold.
Cut to two butts, not down the center.
Cold butt now rests in my crotch and cools off my belly
As I sit on the deck two months into heatwave
and savor the cool of just 80 degrees.
Dark, now, under my elm and my birch tree.
The fan on the deck sends blessed air oe'r my body.
Seated, with spoon, I seek to the melon.
My mouth crunches join
with the rhymes of cicadas.
Melon cools throat
red, cold, grainy.
Seeds are ejected
in sync with cicadas.
Such wonderful evening
in this hell of a heatwave
Cool melon cool crotch cool belly cool mouth
Chewing the melon and fighting the heat.
Was think of an ode, but not so good at this....
branches overflowing with grape bunches, some blusing, others still great green. wait for the blush to deepen!!!!!
anticipating grape pie...ahhh
5 1/3 c grapes and squeeeeeeze their pulp, pits into a sauce pan and SAVE THE SKINS....
boil the pulp as is, naturally
push through a sieve to remove pits
reunite them with their skins!!!! ahh bliss
enhance their nature with 1 1/3 c sugar and 1/4 c flour, 1 1/4 tsp lemon juice and 1/4 tsp salt
let their beauty fill the bottom crust
dab their luciousness with 1 1/2 tsps butter
clothe them in the top crust
warm them at 425 degrees F for 35-45 minutes
let them rest and cool!!!!!
taste their sun, their sweetness, and their true nature!!!!!!
recipe from Betty Crocker Picture Book 1956
A leftover mac n cheese onion bacon fritatta.
I sincerely believe that the key to success
is the slicing and browning of the cold mac n cheese.
Cut 3/4 inch slices from the cold mac with your spatula.
Trim them to ladyfingers, then pan brown them on both sides, remove.
Time for onions and bacon, fry to completion
(for those wanting crunch, add some whole cumin.)
Pour in the eggs, then distribute browned fingers.
Easy heat on the bottom, then into hot broiler.
Coarse pepper, coarse salt,
Coarse rowdy breakfast chorus.
And it's also well smelled
No matter if fritatta nor frittata
is the way that it's spelled.
(I remain in compassion to the ridicule of Dan Quayle
on his take on the tater potato potatoes.
Heck folks, our spelling dishambles
are one of the few flaws of English.)
Now hand me my fork to pluck macs from the matrix
and savor the eggs onion bacon.
So soon incumbent that he masters the art of the good refried beans.
Cast iron kettle is steady
well cooked pintos at the ready
But will he be ready for season of football?
I bring forth my stash of my cumin, oregano,
a soft dose of onions
and thus I proceed toward the dip.
As I mash up the beans, I accede to the median
that any good dip gotta have some Velveeta....
I just hope that a crumblet of barely crushed cumin
will hit with coincedence
of the feel of the crossing of goal-line.
It begins with a trip to the Bun Man.
He invested in ovens some twenty years ago
and has built thriving business
yet he knows every customer.
He doesn't cut his buns; he knows that I'll do that.
Next to the butcher.
Knows his meat, knows his customers.
He wraps up some beef from the seven-bone chuck
and also some pork from the heart of the shoulder.
He doesn't grind it; he knows that I'll do that.
Now to the produce for fattest red onions
and stoutest romaine.
All parts are now home
and I put on the music most rhythmic for grinding
The beef and the pork, cut, intermixed,
get two passes through grinder
then hand massaged into patties.
Onions, as discs, are the first in hot pan,
blackened on surface, but firm in the center,
removed to warm holding.
Buns, gently split, gently buttered
are browned on their faces.
Then patties set down for their char
while slicing aged cheddar,
soon atop for their melting.
Each to their condiments. Mine's Mayo.
Assembled to layers, one heck of a burger:
Travel of teeth:
Soft bun, sort cheese, yields to brown crunchy bun face
cuts through good onions crisp lettuce
hits crisp surface of meat
then slides through soft medium center
then base of the bun.
There is joy in that burger.
Perhaps a dalliaince
with a good morning sandwich
where eggs meet with cheese.
Talking, of course,
of time when the egg hits the bread.
Ovums bescrambled, but softly.
Brought to two toasted breads
that are slathered with mayo and pepper
and slab of sharp cheddar.
All enfolded in foil
to be eaten ten minutes later
when coffee has cooled
and sandwich has melded to maximum.
Gives grin to our travel
Cuz its really real good.
Should one dance in the morning as we break our night's fast?
Should eggs oaties bacon give cause to a prance?
Should sun now arising add joy to this meal?
Should day that awaits us to travel through
give height to our appetite to breakfast?
As yolk in the pan
matches orb in the sky
I say yes.
Oh, them hor'douvers ain't they sweet.
A little piece of cheese and a little piece of meat!
The Kingston Trio
I don't want no burgers.
I don't want no spam.
I don't care if it's boiled or fried,
Just give me a big friggin' clam!
Wicked Good Band
I like eels,
But not the way they feels,
Or as meals.
Ode to the Reuben.
The sandwich begins.
Two pieces of rye bread
Within which the Caraway sparkles.
Bread sent not to toaster
but to seasoned iron pan
as befits all grain carriers
of the Caraway clan.
Upon toasted face is slathered both mustard and mayo.
Then the Pastrami, layered to thick levels.
Followed by sauerkraut, and slice of Swiss cheese
Returned to the pan for more toastin.
Devoured with devotion.'
To watch of the rhythm as the ladies plant rice.
Bowed to the paddy, strong hats on their head.
Plunging the seedling to root in the mud
in their own special cadence.
Euphony of elbows
flexed upon water.
It has rhythm sublime,
as rootlets in mud
will give rise to good grain.
The ladies in hats
with their feet in the mud
seem to relish their role
in the cycle of grain and of families.
It is good give meander
twixt our pickles, our onions
As we set out to con'struct our sandwich.
Our choice of laid layer
whether bread, whether bun,
Such subtleties of crust
are just one of our issues
but then stout among us
are those that seek crustless.
I give suppose
that as we compose
our superlative sandwich
We remember meander
'tween pickles and onions.
Those danged laws of Newton
and his theories of gravity
Keep us inclined in our chairs
in our varying times of our over-consumption.
Had Newton seen universe
in its sweet soft simplicity
He would know that belt-loosening
and occasional farting
Was purely digestive,
not planetary motion.
It is of Ogden, and J W Riley
to give me this speak upon pumpkins.
Such globular gourds
by Halloweeners adored.
So many times we have opened them, scraped them
of seeds, be replaced by carved face.
I admire their rotundity, and the fact they are orange,
and also abundant with edible seeds.
This season of frost
it is good to have pumpkins.
And perhaps more perceive
from such strength of the pumpkins.
I went down to McD's
attached to our Walmarttook place
and ordered the joy
of their good "senior coffee".
Heck, I sure wish I had studied more Spanish
as all elocutions
took place in that language.
But I got my coffee.
It's a really good brew
that rolls down the gullet
That rolls down the gullet
regardless of language.
First finders of Fords,
the crossing of streams
which up or down river would be too extreme.
I wish I could share
that magnificent moment
Where scope of the river
gave clarity to crossing.
And those rascals of scouts
Did it on diet of jerky and bacon and beans.
I accord with all finders of Fords,
of bacon and beans.
Now Fall, with commensurate coming of frosts
I'm musing 'pon using of pumpkins.
Not those grown for carving,
but rather for serving.
We can only give marvel
to farmers ancestral
who saved best germplasm
for next generation.
Could we wonder of their methods
of laying hot fire to the gourds?
Their is talk of skin bags
laid in pits in the ground, filled with water
with hot rocks for heat immersed
to afford a slow simmer.
But perhaps did they roast them on fire
without benefits of metals as good grates?
Might be well we appreciate
these old keepers and cookers of gourds
as today we use microwaves
and calibrated ovens.
There is room for good praises
of those passers of pumpkin seeds.
Thanks for that link, to remind us
of the power of Thomas.
I devoured his literature in my formative years.
It was prose that did mingle with poetry.
During same years, I lived near his hometown of Asheville, North Carolina
and would visit his childhood home, restored, open to public,
and rock in a chair upon floors built of chestnut
and just seek of his soul as so great a writer.
Legend has it that, with his tall looming frame
He would use as his desktop the top of his refrigerator
Thus writing while standing.
Good place to be
When you're seeking a snack.
Musing on JW Riley and his bent dialectual
and Ogden, dear Ogden,
with his bent toward the everywhere
and given the season November
there must be mention of dear Robert Frost.
It is season of harvest
It is time to rejoice
to lay joy to event
of morning ice on the ground.
Hear the knives cutting pumpkins
just right, at their stems.
Be part of the shard of those changes
that we welcome in Fall.
Here on this morn
with a breakfast with cheeses
mind moves back in time
to the old timer cheesers
also known as the geezers.
Their names sing with euphony
There was Ebenezer,
whom just from his name
we'll assume was a cheeser.
Then more of a mouthful
with broad pastures of goats
we must ponder his cheddars.
It is good to have geezers
ringing peals from the past
as we munch on our cheese
in the morning.
We are blessed with abundance of shrooms here in Oklahoma, having a superlative shroom farm about a hundred miles up the highway that brings them in fresh.
In my personal meander into realms of the mushrooms
I find sweet affinity with them dried up Shiitakes.
Always signals good dance
of gentle remembrance
when I trod Japanese forests
designed with a kind of Pine
and understory layer of stacked oak logs
from which those Shiitake gave growth.
Good times... Good forests.
I buy them dry bagged by almost the bushel
then transfer to quarts size glass Masons.
They are part of decor of my kitchen.
And their rehydration a part of my rhythm.
It is shroom of a dance and a dallince
Twixt the dried and the fresh.
This Okie feels lucky
and blessed by good mushrooms.
Beans staple becradled
Or earlier place
amidst roars of the embers
finding place in the hearth
Now more to the microwave
But yet still beans been staples
as have always been
with place on our tables
So blessed buy the hearth
Sweet legumes from the fields
Have always been beans
and gift to our tables
However our hearths.
There will always been been
and always thus also
the gift of good beans.
Be there joy be so singular
As contemplation of liver
as delivered by chickens?
Offered as Orbs
with resilience they glisten
and shake as take shape.
Later bepaired with some all purpose flour
or perhaps pours of Marsala
the globular liver
maintains its integrity
Always staying real good;
Which is what be expected
from so simple a gift
as globular glistening livers.
So where would we be without singers of seasons?
Chanters of Spring with florescent abundance
of things more than good onions full spectrum of Alliums
springing eternal yet somehow ephemeral
as gits that give spring.
Then Songsters of Summer when mind moves toward maters
and we sit in that patch and salted envelope the whole;
Then singers to Fall and call to their pumpkins
and squashes and gourds,
There be room for all singers
who conscience all seasons
Give their glissade and their roar
To things tucked to season.
To neglect the great magnitude
of William Carlos Williams
as a poet appreciate of plums
Would be deep negation
of those came before us
of voice building chorus
To plumb to the plum
with view admirative
to firm of its supple
of softness and stoutness
of both flesh and of skin
when hefted to chin
Gives us the gift
of simple simplicity
of fruit such as plum.
Just with tip of the hat
our words simply blend chorus
of them came before us.
Be it so simple
as love of the plums.
It was good to have rocked
with such mentle had Momma
Our oak chairs
spent dual rhythm
upon hard chestnut of floors.
There stroked we together
in manner comptemplative
Of matters of Wolfe
of poets of granite
and of looking of Homeward
and of time spent in rivers.
Crockpot doth extend, in these seasons sans summers
Its own gentle heat, while simmers interior
Beef seven bladed, pork been beshouldered
Nestled together as goodness of flavor
and surehaps great gravy
so sits enkindled my crockpot.
Not much source of strength of good heat
in lack of high kilowatts
It surely has mingles
of warmth and of memories
both warmth and both taste.
Still yet it kindles
most gentle of heaters
prepared for the strength of both beef and pork shoulder.
There is awe
in both strength
and bekindle of kitchens.
The shards of the Feast live long through the weekend
with casseroles, hashes
and most of all sandwiches.
Who not among us has sneaked down to the kitchen
in such search of leftovers?
Open the fridge door and yes, there it glistens...
shreds of the Turkey
and some form of Cranberry.
Thus we are tasked only with finding some bread
to assemble said components
in some semblance of sandwich.
So pleasant that mission
to find perfect combination
of bread, and of turkey, and so luscious of berries.
With the added good unctuous of Mayo.
Just be careful of slippage
if you try for the Dagwood.
Arising way early this morning to almost-frosted dawn
I reach with deep habit for skillets, and growl with soft yawn.
It is time to prepare a big breakfast.
Sausage and bacon be of course such a given
as are biscuits becoddled until they're well risen.
Dense multigrain pancakes with sorghum as season.
Longing for days of quick trip to the henhouse
now finding solace in eggs in their styrofoam cartons.
But eggies be eggies, and be served on demand
as to fried to their doneness or degree of their scramble.
Soon all will awaken from slumber and stumble toward kitchen
Giving stretch, giving scratch
giving unknowing wonder
to beauty of breakfast
and beauty of day and of dawn.
As days beat their march with little no fanfare
when good mornings as this fade in time to be bygones.
There will always be memories
of magnificent breakfasts
of the sizzle of eggs.
In Praise of the Pig:
So supple, so handsome, this rumbling beast
been with us eclipsed generations.
Of the Triad of milk cow, egg-laying chickens,
I pick the Pig.
From curly-queued tail, to flatness of snout,
to distinction of snort,
I pick the Pig.
He gives us not milk, but he gives us his meat.
Not just the prime cuts, but also his offal.
It is good to have joy with the jowls and the trotters,
with the bellies most unctuous and the snouts of firm texture.
We have journeyed together some thousands of years
We and the Pig.
It was there in the woods, in our wilderness camping
as both rain and winds shook our tent.
It was there, as we ate the pot slowly,
at bottom shone a single macaroni.
Two spoons, one pot, was our manner of camping
Quizzical looks, lumend only by flashlight.
Growls of our bellies not yet fully sated.
Just who would take prize of this last macaroni?
Thunder and wind and hard rain gave shake to our tent,
but paled to the showdown over last macaroni.
Then broke we with laughter
that equaled skies thunder.
We clanged spoons in the pot
and proceeded to rip so asunder
into equal of halves
this remnant of solo of noodles.
God bless macaroni.
God bless good friends.
God bless the lessons
of one noodle in bottom of pot.
It is good have relationship
with purveyor supplier
where one can knock
upon door of the shop
and door opens.
This was the case
with most local of folks
ran shop well reknowned
as good noodlers.
If eggs bathed in dashi
were not just quite ready
They pulled out the pans
and fried up some fresh ones.
Always with basket of brass and bamboo,
where swung such fresh nooodles
soon delivered to porcelain bowl
as real kind of ramen.
Just a knock on the door.
Would that all kitchens
had embrace of good chickens
to send them
to hot fire of the oven.
Would that all folks
would suckle good yolks
of eggs lightly fried
enwrapped in albumen.
It was never a question of chicken or egg.
Just goodness of concert.
Who to dance first?
Chickens that roar with heat of hot oven?
Eggs in the skillet that bubble on stovetop with butter?
Such questions of chickens and eggs
become quite be-baffling.
And then add to equation the question...
of the crossing of road...
I would much rather sit at the table
with a well-roasted hen, for the pulling,
and a thrice of fried eggs, for the sucking.
Then, with fear of cacophony,
mix bite of the drumstick
with bite of the egg white.
It is there, in that moment,
that bells peal resolution
of perennial questions
Of just which came first,
and why crossed they the road?
There are so many answers
yet un-clucked from our chickens
or their yolks and albumens.
Consider the bean.
Ovoid in shape
as it dries as legume.
Consider its power.
Packed full of protein.
As rests there, a single legume.
So rounded in power
lays that legume.
Accordance to proteins
and good polysaccharides
been be in those beans,
I celebrate waft,
That brings home them Pintos
in our farts and our flatulence.
So singular, so supple,
It is be, be the bean.
It is cow in the moonlight.
Sweet dance of the task of unloading those udders.
The grapple of teats, to splash milk in the bucket,
reminds me of others.
Let us bring it to bucket.
Let us not think of others had udders.
Let us just splash with a rhythm to bucket
with good moo to the moonlight.
Rhythm to milking.
Richness of milk.
And beauty of evening
gives to moo.
Thoughts just upon the goodness of grits.
Harmony in Hominy
of grits on the plate.
Corn that was kettled now brought to the table
as plate of good grits.
So hard to find word
that gives balance to harmony hominy
so I let it resolve in its euphony.
It is just plate of grits.
Spoon to the plate and the face, I devour them.
Waitress, who watches,
asks simple question...
would I find pleasure had in just one more plateful?
I order up eggs.
I order up bacon
As me and my spoon give good slop to the hominy...
There is beauty appointed to plate full of grits.
Such wonder of days
when the Clan got together
and shared up their gossip
along with their casseroles.
It was Uncles and Aunts
well gathered to table
with gift of accord
to Aunt Matron who hosted us.
The passing of casserole
in cascade down the table
is a gift best of given
by rollick of family.
Shares of stories of wears
in safety of good family
became just incumbent
in passage of casseroles.
Beauty of Family
Gathered to table
has strength of far greater resound
than such simple as casserole.
Perhaps it be role of a rascal
to bring to the table
such a lowly discussion
as a can of sardines.
Cloistered they be
in stiff cans of aluminum
yet with lids made for zipping
and contents devouring.
So dazzle the deens
ensconced in tight can
yet embody the swim of the fishies
in fullness of ocean.
Good that it be, have so close a neighbor
Daily dispenser of tofu.
Good that it be, that she knows me only by smile
language a barrier
She be Vietnam.
Yet daily she grinds her gift of the soybeans
rendered to milk
then curdled to tofu.
Her shop has appeal
of glisten most stainless of steel
with bags of beans stacked
awaiting their curdle.
Always of smile,
and wipe to her apron
that shows well she worked,
Still language be barrier
but dispenses with style
the warmth of her tubs of fresh tofu.
Such be the rhythm,
of milkers and curders of beans.
Yet be there the meetment of smile.
Upon simple as Milk.
Consider the slide
betwixt hardness of glass
and a gladness of gullet
results from a good gulp of milk.
Such best of the beverages
it glides as does silk
down journey of throat
that be milk.
Caseins and proteins
so sweetly delivered
just one more gift
of glissade of the milk.
In range of its temperatures,
charges hard as a warrior
When delivered of crisp and of cold.
That be the way
of the most of us
give drink to it. Cold.
Yet savor the flavor
of Milk at room temperature
with such subtle yield
to fullness of fragrance.
There lingers aroma
perhaps of the caseins
mayhaps the fullness
of just being milk.
It is reason kept cows.
To knead of their udders
to deliver to bucket
such marvel as milk.
Carton of eggs, these days, from modern of markets, are somewhat a given.
Yet those eggs laid freshly, by hens, with their chuckles
and their settle with feathers upon place in their nests
Be the best.
It is good to have friends who are farmers of chickens
and share of their eggs upon breakfast.
Gift, winter evening, of joy of hot chocolate.
Sups from the cup have good snort and warm sipping.
Why else would botanists have given it name "Theobrosia"
As we supple its nectar from Gods?
Nights of such quiet and softness of winds
of good distribution of chill upon continent
are perhaps best time to contemplate chocolate.
I sip mine beside the heater that berates cold of winter
seeking the essence of so simple the beverage
as unveils in hot chocolate.
There is swirl to the cup
of each every sup
to the sediment at bottom
causing thoughts Theobroma.
Sips to the fireside
Sups to the warmth
Such be the goodness
of this beverage of winter
With annual gridiron and kickoff of laced pointed pigskin
our national passion seems reside with the wings of the chickens.
There are pilgrimages to recipes of original Buffalo
of just what best hot sauce, and just how much butter?
Earlier years I bought styro pack of fresh wings
Good feel of heavy cleaver as it slid through the joints
Yielding two pieces, plus wingtip for stock.
Now times march ahead of us and it's frozen bagged wings.
Much easier, but I miss feel of cleaver in patient dissembly.
Browned in an inch of hot oil
they are ready to cool on the rack
and rest overnight in their marinade
To be served after hot oven baking, with basting.
while NFL diehards are playmaking.
I settle to seat, with plate of good wings,
and use both my teeth and tongue to dissect them digest them,
and sometimes give play with my fingers.
Grill Man stands heavy from morning of hashbrowns.
Flat-top is tired from that run of good eggs and crisp bacon.
Breakfast is over.
It is time turn attention to matter of onions.
Their globes have been peeled and sliced
Layers now lofted with tug of good fingers.
Some ready for Rings,
some ready for Grill.
First order comes in
and down go the onions.
Sizzled to grill,
and then comes the magic ...
The pounding of patty down deep in those onions,
Power of spatula
Brings crisp onion burgers.
Smile of mutual intention.
Bun roughly grilled
Then consummate burger
Placed to the plate.
Sensuous sear gives aromas.
Crust of the onions
Give please to teeth tongue and palate.
Grill Man done good.
A pause of applause for strong paws, of them stack our cheddars.
They take them from milk, to good curdled caseins,
Stirring and salting to bring to a slab.
Forearms employed for the folding and stacking,
Transport to racks, where, over time, become cheeses.
Those of white shirts and white hats,
With paddle in white milk in vessels of steel
Should engender our praises
of their part in our cheeses.
Poem: Bonito to Dashi.
Visions of days in Hakata bay
as men did their work with bonito.
Quick knife, they were long quarters,
Transforming those quartered bonito
was slow dance with real rhythm.
Pulling from slow fire
Patience of rhythm
of drying and smoking.
Then the innoculum of sweet Aspergillus
to be molded and rested
It dries the bonito to
us and our shaving.
Praise to those fellows
who have worked the Bonito.
Now in our hand, the hardness and ping,
Katsuoboshi delivered from Masters.
We shave it to flakes
in the thinest of increments.
We savour the hiss
of bonito 'pon blade.
Shavings pile from our process
Deepest aromas surround us.
We are one with the fish
and its yield to the blade.
Good is our dance with the Dashi.
Weather is excellent.
Windows allow that the outside
Roasted a pork loin
with utter simplicity.
Blazing heat first,
then no electricity.
Slow thrills in the slicing
of pork so enticing,
Some for week's sandwiches
Some today's dalliances.
Curtains are billowing
Taut sheets are beckoning.
Today with tonnato
Ahead of tomorrow.