Sonnet Recipe: Middle Eastern Chicken

Brown up a pound of chicken, cut up small,

Then add a tablespoon of chicken stock,

A can of diced tomatoes and, in all

Two cups of frozen pepper mix and rock

That in the skillet till it boils and cook

About two minutes. Then add half a cup

Of raisins and a cup more stock and -- look

Ya gotta have some garlic!* -- then mix up

Some thyme, allspice, cloves and a bay leaf, too;

Black pepper and some cumin. Stir that in

And simmer for just 20 minutes. You

Will dig what then results. Now, I have been

A-draining off some liquid from what's done

To cook the couscous in, but that's me, hon.

Spice amounts:

GARLIC: 2 cloves, minced

THYME (dried): 1 1/2 t

CUMIN: 1 t

ALLSPICE: 1/4 t

CLOVES (ground): 1/8 t

BLACK PEPPER: 1/8 t

In Which It's Chicken Licken Gross

If Great-Great-Grandma would not call it food,
Then really it is not, quoth Pollan, and
I find this valid, though it's sometimes rude
To point it out. Today though, through the land
(Of Internet if not America)
Comes forth this tidbit: Chicken's only meat
If it all comes from one bird, which, no duh
But somehow many think it's fine and sweet
When it's extruded like soft serve, all smooth
And pink, and shaped at will, containing bits
We'd never eat, from many birds. I'll soothe
You not at all; this stuff just gives me fits.
It's why I don't go dining with a bird
Or other critter, sans the farmer's word.

In Which I Have Mixed Feelings Over Vat-Veganism

Last night I made elk chili for our meal,

Tonight homemade tomato sauce I plan,

Homemade tomato paste, too. Yes, I feel

Quite proud to make my own. I do think Man

Does best when he's an omnivore but I

Don't do the supermarket meat thing, no.

The chemicals and cruelty just don't fly

With me. Per William Gibson today, though,

I ponder now a future in which meat

Comes not from animals, milk not from cows,

Eggs not from birds; all vat-grown. Could be sweet,

Or could be even more disgusting. How's

It strike you? We already eat such stuff

As great-grandma would not call food, sure 'nuff.

At Suppertime, I Muse On My Crock Pot

My parents are still here due to the snow

That's falling fatly on us in Cheyenne

And to my invitation to do so;

Round Two of hospitality's the plan.

It's cocktail hour as I start to wind up

The preparation of our fine repast:

A chicken dish with apples I've lined up

Since 'round the crack of noon. I cut up fast

An onion and some garlic cloves; I thawed

Some frozen chicken and some orange juice;

I mixed that juice with spices and, no fraud

Dumped all into a crock pot, turning loose

The slow heat on the food, right then, at noon.

Now to add in some apples; ready soon!

For Melissa, or: My First Short-Order Sonnet

At the request of Melissa, my friend,
Who works with me and keeps me much amused,
I must complete before our day shift's end
A sonnet on a bird that's much abused.
We cut their beaks, we caponize their cocks,
We feed them friends and relatives betimes,
All so they will taste good in soups and stocks
And as filets with tequila and limes.
They're tasty, too, when fried like Daddy does
Or baked with artichokes and some sherry.
No matter what you do, they're great, because
A chicken's far indeed from ordinary.
And I have yet to mention chicken eggs,
Which taste almost as good as chicken legs.