Le Gourmand d’Amour

 

I lard the beef as one should,

but still shudder at the tête de veau —

it's the teeth, honey. I know it was merely my

American squeamishness that made me balk

when presented with the finest of treats:

that shiny jewel of the fish eyeball that I declined.

The embarrassment I caused with the mere mention of

la vache folle when presented a plate of sweetbreads.

And let's not talk about the prudence of simply washing

one's hands, as I don't want to go there ever again.

 

We hunted for mushrooms in your pretend forest,

and, yes, in the end, I was terrified for my liver

when presented the steaming platter of our day's

gathering, despite the daily alcohol that flowed

like one of the thick Breton Canals. After a lunch

with six bottles of wine between the four of us

(and do not forget the pousse-café) your mother wondered

why Americans were so lazy, sleeping the afternoon away.

But give me credit, as you know the first thing

I ordered in any bistro in Paris was always

 

Andouilette à la Moutarde — a sausage of smoked tripe,

Pretty damn good, I say. Second on my list,

you also know, was a steaming bowl of fresh and fragrant

moule, so much like a dull orange labia,

each salty wet mouthful reminded me of you.

And it was good, as God said it was good

(especially with the pomme frites

and a liter of wine).

Alone now, in my exquisite kitchen,

an expanse of granite, clean lines and ample

 

space to wield my sharp knives, I cook elaborate

dinners for myself and speak pigeon French to my Yellow Lab,

washing my hands like a Fou d'Amérique:

Côte Rôtie with my lamb; Rock Salted Sea Bass;

Guinea fowl with Sausage and Cabbage;

Coquille St. Jacques. I put this kitchen

through the paces, my love, I really do.

I eat standing up. Watching CNN,

letting loose recipes as I let you go.

Eating well.

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