Saturday, February 18, 2006

The Gravy Train

Horrors. Something was amiss in the kitchen... the first few days of colony we were gravyless, desolate. Two roast dinners came and went without a drop to drown in. Nought but a few tears moistened my roast potatoes on Sunday, and we quietly despaired amongst ourselves in parched mutters. However, glad to say things have righted themselves since and our universe floats once more in its happy sea.

As fate would have it, when I was at the AWP conference last year I picked up a copy of Poetry International 9 (2005), which we've all been browsing and which - wouldn't you know it - includes a recipe-like poem called Gravy, by Barbara Crooker, which tells us to:

Scrape off bits of skin, bits of meat; incorporate
them in the mixture, like a difficult uncle
or the lonely neighbor invited out of duty.

Thus inspired, and still rejoicing after dinner, I reached for the gravy dish myself last night:

Gravy and More Gravy

Who’d want to live
in a world without gravy,
which makes all things
equal on the plate,
which gives potatoes
a smooth ride, which
comforts the meat
it came from....


Blogger Brenda Schmidt said...


11:01 a.m.  
Blogger Ken Kowal said...

sounds fattening to me

but that's just

me eh


3:59 p.m.  
Anonymous Anonymous said...

Finally my gravy poem, a week after the fact. Thanks to Ken Mansfield for procuring the glistening golden nectar..


Hey where’s the gravy
luscious meat juices exuding
the heady stream of steam
pluming from the pot
the silken treasure of
grease and flour,
or cornstarch,
perhaps a bit thin
but better than
no gravy at all
makes jack a dull
no love today
my gravy’s gone away
the potato mound is sullen
without sodden companion
roast beef without the grease
wool without the fleece
chicken without the fat
only jack sprat could
imagine that.

11:15 a.m.  

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