Foie gras
I’ve served my time as a fatted goose. I have. A creature stuffed with waaaay too many empty calories.
I’m sick of that funnel crammed down my gullet. I’ve been force fed soooooo much corn...waaaay too much corn.
From the pedant who spoke of a doting husband...
From the artiste who whispered of peeling away layers...
From the spouse who angrily demanded more and ever more...
From the ersatz lover who failed to love truly...
From the takers, the users, the scammers and the like...
* * *
We all saw him. The peasant with the big net.
He hobbled across the quay to where the two wild geese swam serenely.
We were docked securely courtesy of sturdy hawsers. We dined sumptuously hours later.
We toasted each other with cognacs and whiskeys and wines.
We spied the very same grizzled peasant walking back along the quay at nightfall with a moribund goose enmeshed within his net.
We all saw him. Some of us paused...some felt somewhat appalled.
And all through the night we all heard the gut-wrenching cries of the solitary, forlorn goose that swam up and down the canal crying so plaintively. We all heard that goose. We had witnessed the demise of its partner.
And all night long the cries echoed, reverberated, haunted and admonished.
* * *
The next day, we were served foie gras as an appetizer...accompanied by a fine wine.
I kid you not.
* * *
(There was precious little clattering of tableware that evening. Subdued conversation. Precious little in the way of appetite)
* * *
We all saw him. The peasant with the big net.
He hobbled across the quay to where the two wild geese swam serenely.
We were docked securely courtesy of sturdy hawsers. We dined sumptuously hours later.
We toasted each other with cognacs and whiskeys and wines.
We spied the very same grizzled peasant walking back along the quay at nightfall with a moribund goose enmeshed within his net.
We all saw him. Some of us paused...some felt somewhat appalled.
And all through the night we all heard the gut-wrenching cries of the solitary, forlorn goose that swam up and down the canal crying so plaintively. We all heard that goose. We had witnessed the demise of its partner.
And all night long the cries echoed, reverberated, haunted and admonished.
* * *
The next day, we were served foie gras as an appetizer...accompanied by a fine wine.
I kid you not.
* * *
(There was precious little clattering of tableware that evening. Subdued conversation. Precious little in the way of appetite)
* * *
posted by Jonas | 8/21/2009 02:17:00 AM
9 Comments:
I kept telling myself this wasn't real. And then you tied this up and stuffed it with, "I kid you not." uggghhh, i have been beaten~
Which is why I have never and will never eat foie gras.
Okay, I understand that this is both literal and metaphor. But it is also why I struck foie gras from my list of things I'd eat, as soon as I found out how it was made in my teens. Ditto veal. Long before I stopped eating bird and mammal, I knew there were cruelties which should not be abided by civilized people.
I've never been tempted to try foie gras... Although I am a confirmed meat eater, organ meat just isn't something I can handle. Had to eat liver and kidneys as a kid and hate them still!
I do, however, love veal. It doesn't fall in the same category as foie gras, as far as I am concerned.
Being forcefed the emptiness of lies and deceit is no longer something I will tolerate. I spent too much time in the past trying to digest the garbage that the other in my life was cramming down my throat... trying to stomach it all to make things work... when there was nothing there but empty calories.
MMMM cognacs and whiskey.. I'll skip goose organs.
Being forced to swallow the hard truths is not a place I want to be shoved into. Life should be at a pace of peace and free will. Is that too hippy of me? Does that mean I wear rose colored glasses? Maybe but hey ... it's a nice way to live sometimes.
I gotta admit, this entry kinda came outta nowhere. I had been pondercating the merits of immolating artifacts versus clinging to mementos. "Clinger" that I am, I was astonished to find such bitterness welling up from my deep recesses. Mebbe I would've healed faster had I flashed a bit o' anger at the right time? Who knows?
We are who we are.
Then came the foie gras commentary. I'll have you know, peoples, that I spent a number of years inspecting slaughterhouses, feedlots, fish farms, migrant labor camps and farms that were...shall we say...less than bucolic. The commentary dredged up imagery I'd rather forget. In fact, if I could forego eating entirely, I would. Big agribusiness ain't pretty.
I made myself queasy with this entry.
Prolly serves me right.
Sounds like you, and the goose need to take a good sh.... well, metaphorically speaking.
Metaphorically speaking, Jay...I just did.
It didn't offer the relief I had expected.
By the by, Saint Thomas Aquinas once noted that the two greatest pleasures in life were a good dump and combing one's hair...(I'm paraphrasing).
Who am I to argue with a saint?
I thing getting one hair combed is such a treat.
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