I have nothing to say. Nothing. Nothing at all. I am all poemless and ish. The most poemy thing I had on the brainspace today was Moose Stew. When I was a kid it was my favorite food. My D1’s fav, crockpot chicken burritos, are way easier to make than moose stew. There’s no hunting involved, for one. Two, all the seasoning comes from one can of green enchilada sauce. Three, there are no other vegetables. No carrots, onions, beans, parsnips, etc. Just cheese, beans, and tortillas. She likes it because it is cheesy and ready fast. My American Girl.
Can I write a stew poem and go to bed early? I think I can. Is it escapism? Yup. For Sure. Have I already written a Moose Stew poem this year? Maybe. I don’t remember. A year is a long time.
Here it goes,
All the best dishes are slow to the stove.
The best stew takes a season or more to get to the pot.
Large points and skins give it up to the freezer, with a single big shot, bounced loud against the snow,
and the packages glint red, wrapped up in cellophane.
The best dish is long-cooked, slow on a fire that requires attention,
in the deep pot that requires frequent scraping.
The roots are ready, scrubbed and chopped a bit smaller than necessary,
to prevent choking. Orange, yellow, bloody purple, and potato,
those are the colors of the roots sent in to simmer with the thickening broth.
When we moved lower, to the 48, they told me the stew was still moose.
But there were none on the streets, or in the back gardens,
and so we all tricked one another, all knowing it was just venison.
It must be easy to fool a child.
Goodness. A Stew poem. Who knew? Not me, that’s for sure. Happy Tuesday, Poempeeps.