Sustenance

Knocking boots, it was fun until the boots got old. The best scrumpy was not a girl at all, but a pint of raw cider. Midway through a hike, she cooked up hot Irish stew in a chill mountain mist. Never gave much thought to stimulating aromatics until wood smoke got in my eyes. The butchers dog always had the biggest balls in town, marrow bones for its libido. I recall these snippets in a teacup while slurping a Darjeeling Brew, it washes over my tongue like an Indian waitress I once knew. Funny how the mind surfs up recollections likes grains of rice, those best moments of long forgotten flavors. I put my tongue in my cheek and try to remember more. Crab soup made in a straw hut on a Seychelle's beach, the woman who cooked it tasted of ginger, cinnamon and honey, though on reflection, I can’t quite recreate that dish anymore. I think I might have to write a longer poem about food with less sex.