Best Shallots Poems
Fungus Solarium
mushroom
sun room
Give them Voting Rights
Shallots’
Ballots
To Crush it!
Shallot
mallet
Flooded Veggie
Spinach
in ditch
Romantic Invitation
Meet me,
Sweet pea
Don’t Let it Into Salad
Hard chard
is barred
Scarred for Life
The chard
was marred
Sweet-potato Grazers
Two lambs
chew yams
Stink Weed
Garlic
Charlock
Hello, Red Fellow
I greet
my beet
PASTA: A FORK OF HEAVEN
In a pot of bubbling boiling water,
I drop hard nine inches long bundle of farfelles..
Minutes passed,between my fingertips,
I pressed one strand, al- dente!
In a platter glittering white,
I form a fist of fresh-cooked pasta noodles,
pouring a hot scoop of white
creamy silky sauce made from:
parmesan and pecorino
melted, blended in a saucepan,
flavored more with a savory stock,
tossed of shallots, saffron and lean meat.
The sauce must be rich enough
coating all the threads of farfelles...
Garnishing it with grated cheese,
teaspoonful crunchy diced bacon,
a pinch of chopped flat leaf parsley...
Voila! Who could refuse this tasty fork of heaven?
__________________________________________________
***farfelle - a type of pasta: thick and wide noodles
al -dente - a pasta noodle cooked all the way through except in the center being slightly undone
CONTEST name: DIDACTIC FOOD
~~3rd place~~
1:54pm, September 09, 2015
Tin bath in back yard,
Full of shallots for peeling.
Pickles for Christmas!
For Brian's "Images of Fall" contest.
Baby red potatoes peeled
Fresh corn from the field
With pink shallots in the pot
Sausages add zing
Then the shrimps go in
Seasoning
Yum
14/07/2011
For Sara’s “Country Boil” contest
All the Pickled produce gathered
At Branston Manor - if you please!
They entered via a staircase
Made of Jacob's Crackers and Cheese.
The Gherkin Girls and Chutney twins,
Who's names are Tom and Mango
Compete against the Beetroot Troupe
To make the taste buds Tango!
The Beetroot Troupe are not alone.
They have a wise old friend
Zingy Mr. Vinegar.
Always ready to defend.
The Silverskins call upon
The Shallots acapella choir
To pack a punchy added flavour
In a pitch that can't go higher.
The sour Grapes sulk in the corner.
They apparently should not have come.
Only Pickles were invited.
It was not open to everyone.
The Eggs got pickled with too much drink.
They thought it would be fun
To gatecrash the party
Just to confuse everyone!
It was an event to be remembered.
But alas, though sad to say
The party ended abruptly.
For they were consumed that very day!
Written 18th August 2022
For the, "It's A Pickle Party Contest"
Sponsor: Mystic Rose Rose
speak it as it was to be
something for a world of
people to love and admire.
delicious and special.
she wanted something that was flavored naturally.
we determined that a sweet fruity flavor would
be best. because she was cooking chicken
and felt it was best to have as much chicken as vegetables
she decided to make it easier on herself by using
something large to marinate the birds in.
she was cooking twenty game hens, and wanted a mixture of flavor
to marinate the birds in.
she came up with this.
in a large roasting pan she added,
5 pounds of grapes (vines and leaves)
2 trouts (scaled and cleaned)
4 garlic bulbs (halved and unpeeled)
5 medium onions(quartered with peels)
10 lemons(squeeze the juice and and halved)
5 sprigs of rosemary
4 sprigs of thyme
2 gingerootz (chopped)
5 small chilis (halved)
1 cup of cilantro
roast for about one hour( to extract the pungent aromas)
you only want the juices that are extracted from the mixture
drain by using a colander, and a fine screen.
allow to cool.
in a blender add
2 cups of olive oil
1/4 cup of salt
2 green peppers
1 large red onion
2 small chilis (seeds removed)
2 cup of red wine
3 cups of lime juice
1 cup of light brown sugar
4 tablespoons of ground ginger
1/2 cup of white vinegar
7 cloves of garlic
mix smooth and add to the cool mixture
2 two five gallon buckets with lids
add the game hens and pour mixture to cover all the birds.
marinate overnight.
broil birds in the oven until done.
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1 and one half cups of lemon juice
1 cup of coconut milk
1 cup of grapefruit juice
4 tablespoons of cayenne pepper
1/2 cup of honey
8 tablespoons of crushed garlic
1 cup of minced shallots
1 cup of coconut flakes
1/4 cup of light brown sugar
6 tablespoons of rum
4 tablespoons of grounded cumin
1 and 1/4 cup of olive oil
1/4 cup of mint leaves
3 pounds of deveined shrimp
marinade.
in a large roasting pan, add 1 cup of butter
and a half cup of olive oil
sautee about
6 cups of chopped eggplants,
6 cups of diced (cooked potatoes)
1 cup of green onions
add shrimp (cook shrimp underdone!)
add marandae and thicken with cornstarch
6/9/22
Apparently far from tacit
Near endless racket
In day light and pitch blackness
For the sane and those in strait jackets
Dammit
Still sporadic
Caught in transit
Can't rely on magic
Nor give up when it all turns tragic
It's just madness
Even though I feel low and nearly at my saddest
I don't care about any bracket
Or what all is on this pamphlet
I've no intentions to read 'Hamlet"
What the happened?
A world obsessed with gadgets like tablets
Most act like they're above you and in their own palace
Becoming cold and callous
No matter, I shall handle this
No need for prayers and candlesticks
You may be an addict
Following the same old habits
But it is something you can kick
And quit
Occasionally worked with a mallet
As well as pallets
Sometimes had dinner with shallots
Just trying to maintain my balance
Mentally it's a challenge
The same can be said for honing talents
It's bat
Still all this bad
Across the planet
It's not all written in stone, aka granite
Looking at it
From the entire gamut
Instead of a single facet
I don't care about party affiliation, like being Democratic
Quit being so dramatic
It's fixable, far from problematic
You'll regret it, if it turns to static
Because you will be turned to ash quick
By a device made of metal and plastic
Won't be much left for a casket
It's hard to make a classic
And smash hit
I'd like to mine for agates
I already buried the hatchet
For now enjoying the view of the Aurora Borealis
While drinking out of a Titanium Chalice
Good intentions not full of malice
Still looking for my Alice
The old bat is in the kitchen,
She is buggering shallots,
The cat in the bag is bitchin,
Cos she has the bloody hots,
She aint a getting it not.
Old bat is burning water,
The burnt rice hits the floor,
Old bat wants a daughter,
But hubby isn’t sorta,
If he oughta.
Fowls are in the kitchen,
A pecking at the rice,
Old bat has scruffed the milkman,
Who is not very nice,
But he’s wearing old spice:)
Don Johnson 2-aug-11
Hangin' in there Enter Contest [Enter Contest]
Sponsored by: Francine Roberts
It is those things such as these-yes... .
Like remaining on mute because your staying in tune with the close
captioning of the news set up in the picture in picture TV on the big screen. Of the
football game from the Bengles', loss, yes again, and yes again ""don't you know it "! As
your two fraternal twins sit there crying pulling at their heart
while one of the years before Super Bowl champs' from the Cowboy's knocks the ball out
from good old boy Chris Collinsworth's hands. As he's running with all that he's got not
but about twenty three yards out from the goal line. While soft tired whimpers can be
heard, pounding their legs and stomachs rocking away in all seriousness saying why, why,
why? And struggling yourself as a Father you teach them to take it all in stride and how
to watch the humorous spiels from the night before, and to never bet truly on anything
from them.
Sometimes sadly... !
Credences' Rolling on the River playing.
And so the many amenities yes the certain perks of benignity are as well I feel spending
the time with close family and the wondrous sounds yes tasty smells of "BAM" rosemary
wilted-spinach, fresh chopped mushrooms
shallots and garlic a splash of white and red wine vinegar a pinch of salt and pepper lots
of bacon and a thousand basil eggs hordes of cinnamon French toast and what every happy
family needs, a bunch of good old sage'd up getta and congealed grit pies sizzling and
popping away furiously in the butter on the stove in the iron skillets.
And though an extra the grits they are placed in purely-and-only as an honor for my family
and Father, of my past who now has passed. A personal favorite I too shared with him after
church on Sundays.
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=gq1roSoMS84
The old iron fry pan
Sealed and tempered
So many times
Melts the butter and olive oil
Until the entire bottom
Is bubbling almost smoking
The onions and shallots
Cut and diced to tiniest of cubes
Dance and caramel as the wooden spoon swirls
Flakes of garlic and ginger into the mix
Just before it smokes again cubes of chopped potato
Mixed with zucchini and yam
Bring the mix down to working temperature
Minutes later the pan is emptied into a dough
prepped pie plate
Covered with three cheeses
A cup of chopped ham
and three slices of pineapple
Some oven time later
It’s Potato Pie
(So how's your dream chloresterol, countess)
Discriminating palates
garnish salads with shallots
But when eating croquettes
avoid mallets
Disgruntled, they come to me as bit-parts
ripped from black and white movies.
Mad aunt Anastasia, who should have been a nun.
One of her hands will not touch her,
the other has been carried off
by wolfish priests.
The Holy Ghost has pickled her in a jar;
she floats now between worlds.
Uncle Sean, the satyric commis-waiter,
looming above a meaty cleavage,
flambéed Steak Diane with a sapid leer,
poured cognac and butter,
commingled shallots at the table.
Then after the hunt, he’d triumphantly decant
into whomever.
Cousin Tommy died early,
but not before he had burnt through
the Old Testament.
A brimstone disorder gnawed his innards,
left him lacking normal human kapok,
kept him bubbling until a self-inflicted wound
blew out his brains.
There are cousins removed and living
who disassemble themselves, with zealotry
or ennui. None took the middle way,
none quietly settled-in
to live among damp-stained regrets.
Like larks’ tongues, they sing in the invisible.
They reside in the far reaches,
until dark angels flame out
in their berserker eyes.
The Mallard Mimic
is a myth....
it calls for a well trained
chef to use his knowledge of meat and wines
to create a standard
that many would wish for
and are willing to pay
to have
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the usage of duck fat to cook white potatoes
and then be arranged as scales attop
a turkey cutlet
that is stuffed with
mushrooms, prosciutto
olives,shallots
spinach
a sprinkle of nutmeg
and garlic with
a slight touch
of anchovy
on top of a bed of puff pastry
served with
a garlic parmesan roasted
asparagus dish
---------------------------------------
with a side of
maple pecan
butternut squash
Medallion
-------------------------------------
with a buttery eggnog
yeast roll
-------------------------------------
One would
crumble pork rinds
and truffle zest
add grated cheese
and sprinkle it across the top
and serve with
Malbec!
_______________________________
So say's the Myth!
Caution
Coal and violets strewn among your bone
Frosted the night, icy glaze of patient fire
Bending and breaking as a knead
Stammer and as tremor, shallots sake
We play in the billiard righteous in wavery
Banner and bacon, in frivolous ache
And she flies high as one seed rivaling
A building stalking rancour
The peddling of this small river fish
Venturing in reference to a hone
A pyre of tigers eye the longest lead
The bones of balms are one ready
So like the turtle, wisely
Today I am without inspiration
and write a poem
not with words but with
chuck beef cubed and coated
in flour, seared in a pot
until golden brown
then deglazed with a good cup
of cabernet sauvignon - I pack
the lines with shallots, celery,
carrots, seasoning and a can
of crushed tomatoes and then cook it
for hours in a gentle oven.
I savour the smell all day,
hear it bubble in the silence
as it deepens
within the dark magic of itself,
taking on meaning beyond
its mere ingredients. Lifting
the lid, the thick crusted gravy
announces its completion.
Come, take a spoon
and plunge it into its depths.
Taste poetry.