Thou still unravish'd bowl of casseroles,
Thou foster-child of leftovers and slow Time,
Culinary great, who canst thus express
A savory tale more sweetly than our thyme:
What lentil-borne legend haunts about thy shape
Of carrots or potatoes, or of broth,
In my Kitchen or the cuisine de Bisaillon?
What hungry husbands or youngsters are these? What working moms would not get a meal on the table without you?
What mad gastronomic pursuit? What steam struggles to escape?
What pots and pan? What wild ecstasy?
Dinner is served - with apologies to John Keats.
