Blanche and Maude

Today we are gathered together,
 (around the kitchen table)
To celebrate the lives of Blanche and Maude,
Who gave their lives unconsciously,
For the betterment of our nutrition.
They were with us for only seven short months,
But they brought their inquisitive and friendly dispositions,
Into our lives to delight us.
Twice daily we met with them in their modest home.
To provide their succour.
It was a pleasure to discover their individual personalities,
Watch them frolic and gamble about,
Happy in their sorority.
Their gentle and individual expressions, characteristic squeals and exclamations of delight,
Will remain  etched in our memory.
They spent their final days romping in tall grass and playing together.
And fittingly, that is also how they left this world,
Together.
We have been honoured to have had the opportunity to raise,
These magnificent pigs.

An Italian Affair

It's the zing on the tongue,
And tang of aged cheese.
Indescribable,
That lingering sensation,
That is garlic.
Nutty masculine essence of a European forest.
Fresh and moist.
It's the sweet, sharp aroma that sends my mind,
Wine dampened,
To sun drenched Mediterranean hills.
Subtly citric,
Extra virgin.
Grind, grind, grind....
Inhale....
Mmmmmm
The creation of fresh basil pesto.

Garlic Braiding Time

It's garlic braiding time.
They lay on their newspaper bed,
Soil encrusted roots now dry,
Translucent skin flaking,
Stalks brown and bending.

I choose them in nines.
Magic number perhaps.
Or maybe I just like it,
The uniformity.

First dirty layers slough off in my hands.
Collect the bulbs.
Cut the roots off.
Secateur slice the cooking string,
That is fresh, clean and white as the new year.

I plait together the first three bulbs.
Left, right, left, right,
Left.
Add the fourth.
Right.
And so it goes till the braid curls.
A long plait to finish.
Not always knowing when to stop.
A surgeon's knot
Another turn of the strings.
Another.
A reef knot secures it.
Figure of eight to make its hanging loop.

Finishing,
I look across at those that remain unbraided.
And contemplate what to do with those too small to make the final cut.

Pork Crackling

Many years ago,
At least quarter of a century,
I had a divine pork roast dinner.
Crackle was well,
'Crackly'.
Baked roast vegetables were crisp on the outside,
Inside almost melting.
Entirety bathed in a cider quenched marinade,
Salty and sweet.

'Bushy' from Broken Hill,
Or was it Bourke?
Who prepared this feast in the college dorm,
Swore by his cast camp oven.

Since that milestone,
Each pork leg I prepare,
Aims to replicate this culinary triumph.
But in twenty five years this ideal alludes me.

It took five years to understand that,
Though well cooked on the outside,
Flesh within may still be rooting about the pigsty.

Today I cook 'Charcoal',
Or is it 'Ash'?
Last years fattened piglets.
Harbingers of  bushfires,
that dominated the Summer they spent with us.
'Scrumpy' in 'Grolsch' bottles,
from post fire ash tarnished apples.

Poignant that today,
Is another Summer day on bushfire alert.

I compose, write and wait tentatively,
For the leg,
And spuds, newly dug,
To metamorphose into the perfect meal.
Complimented by broccoli,
I've yet to harvest,
And sparkling red currant wine......

My apprehension is palpable.