So, I'm sure you guys have figured out by now that I'm a little weird... well, if you haven't, you know now, because I wrote a poem about cooking ribs. You're welcome. (Either that, or I'm sorry.)
How beautiful are the onions, in their red mesh bag,
laying in a nest of their own pealed-off golden skin.
How beautiful is the crunching
of green-tinged layers, layers upon layers,
protecting the wet, stinging flesh.
The sound of the celery snapping under the knife
is a song to the carrot,
gently being stripped of its calloused skin
over the garbage, stinking of lunch.
Shards of shallot, tinged purple,
and chunks of carrot, onion, celery,
mingling in the mirrored bowl, how beautiful,
the chaos of colors, of fresh green smells,
and the yellow chicken broth seasoning close by
simmering in the knowledge of
the wine, deep and red and glossy,
in the glass measuring cup.
feathery bits of parsley,
next to the minuscule flakes of bitter chocolate,
the green bright and the brown dull.
Red-and-white-sided ribs
dusted with salt crystals and ground peppercorn,
now sizzling in the big blue pot,
browning, steaming up
ghosts of white moisture smelling of juices bubbling
on meat and bone.
Resplendent, awaiting its anointment
by the cooked-soft vegetables, resting
on the plate.
