A Poem, written in the style of Madame Lady Winneffreste Francinqua Vivioliani Rebeque Anchesstra Chesterfolke the Seventh, during her Third Diary period:
Crisp and Brittle
Like a roast Chicken’s flesh
Dished on Golden plates and silver forks,
And paired with the proper wine; a nice dry white from the western villas of France, not Italy.
And a side of fresh gravy made from the brown kind of mushrooms and stewed over the oven for an hour with the leftover scraps of turkey from last night.
Dark and Cruel
Like a sweet table wine from Germany, of all places, when I was expecting a smooth and dry red from the Northern Slopes of the Southern Americas, to go with the freshly seasoned fish that she just can’t seem to season properly during the summer.
It’s never Enough.
To drown out my Husband’s Voice. To Smother in fresh butter and cream from the local cow-man who is ever so kind, if somewhat eager.
No matter how many courses we have.
Perhaps the Italians have it right.
Perhaps seven courses is only half-way there.
Lord knows how they’re not all spherical with their thick wine and olive oil.
Perhaps a Midnight Snack.