Haute Cuisine
It was war days then, and we never thought
of it, ate gooey sandwich bread,
store-bought and sliced, a newfangled luxury,
mixed white lard with a yellow paste
to spread on it, bought rationed sugar,
(enough, though, for daily pie, cake,
or cookies). Four year ago I took them out
for my son’s 50th birthday to a meal that lasted
three-and-a-half hours, each course
with dips and dabs and sips explained
by a young woman dressed in white and black.
as it came, ancient tales chanted
around our candlelight campfire.
Fourteen years after the war’s end,
life was still poor in Scotland,
and at tea, the ladies told me
to buy wood pigeon at the butcher’s shop.
I purchased and prepared one
for each of us, a misunderstanding
of my young naiveté.
We each had a roasted mouthful.
Today the chef details odd imaginings
to bring difference, delight. Fast food offers
gravy on French fries and stuffs
cheese-laden pizza crust with more cheese.
Each day I am reading of instructions
by Mesopotamian chefs found
in crumbled ancient stone:
how to please a king and his court.
And I, who grew up with rationing,
am, at last, the creature
of my childhood fairy tales.
I am living the life of royalty.