Tuesday, April 21, 2015

NOT ONLY THAT, HE CAN COOK TOO - Laura Lee


No herringbone brick walkways in this dirt garden,
Just hard-packed earth, cool under my feet in the shade
Of the scarlet runner beans climbing their pole.
Vichyssoise served from a silver tureen aboard the Queen Mary
Reaching through the foliage to harvest the glossy aubergines,
Bell peppers still ripening in the hot sun as I pick them,
Mud-splashed tomatoes, broken stems releasing an aroma of high summer,
I fill my apron like Nellie in the paw-paw patch.
American boy slurping soupe de poisson and vin ordinaire
I carry the loot into the ancient kitchen where you're making your bones.
You go to work cutting and chopping,
Your Sabatier performing a scherzo of slicing.
Tromping over wet-black sand along the Bassin d'Arcachon
The table is laid with white linen.
The sun goes down and we dine.
A Gitane glows against the night sky.
Your first oyster, a gift from Monsieur Saint-Jour