Long Beef Poems
Long Beef Poems. Below are the most popular long Beef by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Beef poems by poem length and keyword.
.of lateritic soils
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steamed bread
4 cups of cooked rice
white rice
cooled
put into a food processer and blend smooth
add 2-21/2 cup of sifted flour
11/2 cups to21/2 cups of milk
1 egg 2 Tablespoons of sugar
3talbespoons of shortening
1 package of quick rising yeast
blend to create a ball in processor.
remove place in a bowl with a towel
let proof for about an hour
once the mixture has doubled in size flour a work surface and knead until elastic
roll into a square or rectangular shape measure
and cut form balls
in a muffin pan (oiled)
place three balls to one tin
cover again and allow to double in size
steam in a Bay-marie or steamer. or bake
serve with specail meat or enjoy by themselves.
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4 pound beef belly
in a bowl mix salt pepper celery salt
onion powder,garlic powder,2/3 cup of
granulated brown sugar,1 teaspoon of cayenne
and 1 Tablespoon of McCormicks seasoning
mix and set aside
in a bowl mix
5 Tablespoons of mayo
2 Tablespoon of Vinegar
1/2 horseradish
1/4 cup of lemon juice
2 T of Worcestershire
3 Tablespoon of Crown Royal
mix well and cover beef
sprinkle the brown sugar mixture
in a pan place beef
3 sliced bell peppers
2 sliced onions
5 chopped carrots
1/4 chopped celery
1 halved garlic bulb
12 small potatoes
3 cups of water
cover with foil
and bake at 350 degrees for 2 hours or until tender
make gravy and serve with rice rolls
The carcass hung suspended
in a numbed shadow of the mind,
no more an animal, a form
that once lived and drew a breath.
It was now transformed into nothing
more than meat. Headless,
hoofless, quartered and stripped
of hide, what remained had no identity
but a shape, marked out
in imaginary grid lines ready
for the saw to reduce such bulk
to cuts of beef.
I spent my Friday afternoons
in the company of victims of this
deconstructed life, sweeping the floors
and washing down benches glazed
with grease and blood.
My fathers butcher shop
held a corner on the main road,
our surname emblazoned in bold
print across the top. Such,
for me, straddled the distance between
pride and shame. The grace to celebrate
my fathers honest trade rubbed
against the pose I was crafting
to compete in the hierarchical orderings
of a growing middle class.
It clashed with my slide into becoming
a snob.
In truth though, I had no stomach
for the trade. I would heave on the smell
given off when hot water melted grease.
Something in me recoiled on the sight
and feel of blood. The brine vat
was a dark cesspool that fouled every
sense I had. As a small child
I can remember standing beneath
the carcass of a lamb and looking
up into the hole of its headless neck.
A drop of blood fell on my cheek.
The vision of a crucified Christ
flashed in my mind, and I,
beneath the cross, was splashed
with the guilt of His blood.
From then on, there was a sense
of the unholy that always lingered
in the little Calvary of butcher shops.
1/2 cup of fish stock
1/2 cup of lime juice
3 cloves of crushed garlic
1/2 cup of chopped cilantro
1/2 cup of butter
1 cup of asparagus
1/4 cup of dehydrated onion
2 2 inch top sirloin beef steaks cut down the middle
Mix together stuff steaks with asparagus mixture
and set aside
4 peeled and sliced potatoes. thinly sliced,
salt and pepper: garlic powder, and 1/4 cup of diced red onion
and about 3 tablespoons of olive oil, mix together and set aside.
in a baking dish place the two steaks, arranging them in the middle
place potatoes around the edge and cover with foil and bake for about 30 to 40 minutes. remove the beef and leave in the drippings. add 1/2 cup of parmesan cheese, and 1/2 cup of heavy cream, bake until golden brown.
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.
Like soup . . . poems also need a good foundation,
a flavourful base to build upon;
I have no set time limit for my creation,
though, sometimes my alphabets are woebegone !
Carrots, peas, celery and corn are like bright gems,
potatoes, green beans, beef broth and tomatoes are the substance;
that any soup or poem needs to fall from spoons and pens,
and of course alphabet pasta words must swirl in great abundance !
Stirring often my poemy soothing delicious comfort,
I am not afraid of adding a little zest;
in the end my alphabet creation will be triumphant,
and Zen feelings will stir and my soupy poem will be blessed !
_______________________
May 04, 2022
Poetry/Rhyme/Vegetable Alphabet Poems Simmering
Copyright Protected, ID 05-1453-594-04
All Rights Reserved, 2022, Constance La France
Written for the Standard contest, A Merger With Food
sponsor, Natasha L Scragg, Judged 07/02/2022
Second Place
.................................THE NEWINGTON PRESS.........................................
VOLUME VVII NEWSWORTHY EDITION
$1.85 .......... STREET EDITION
June 10, 2001
by Gaffa Dame
reporting from the
Florence Palace Picture Show
the concession stand
venue show features many
variables in modern
culinary arts. styles
and cuisines from
many different cultures,
from all parts of the world.
difficult taste made simple,
by chefs who know
what they are doing.
Worlds combined together
to create and recreate that
" good ole fashion flair using
modern techniques and styles.
We serve turkey pochinni, algone' and
beef buise' and some pork and fish Brouise'
and some recipes that will make you
crawl and beg the chef for the recipe!!
get off your knees and dine type dishes!
It’s easy to criticize others
For their faults we don’t seem to possess
Each of us being perfectly blessed:
“I don’t like the car he drives
Or the shifty look in her eyes, it seems to me
They have some strange ideas and beliefs
Like they don’t eat beef
Or talk the way we do
And I don’t like the way they
Walk, talk, run, dance and prance
Around as if they own this town
And oh by the way did I say
How much I dislike the way he always frowns and
Spikes his hair up strange
And she’s nothing but a pain
Who drives us all insane
But as far as me I’m free
Of imperfections;
Just ask and I’ll give you some directions.”
Taco chili. Pumpkin bread. Zucchini bread. Gingerbread cookies. Chicken and dumplings.
It is a potluck at school and we were supposed to bring our favorite fall desert.
The food keeps coming, and so do the teachers, following their noses, poking around in crockpots,
Laughing as they discuss what they might be tasting. Is this beef? Do you think this is chicken?
I am silently weaving in between them, sneaking out tiny handfuls of candy corn with each mission.
Older people are usually invisible, and I am no exception; so I sneak in and out, unnoticed.
They can have their grown up soups and breads and other junk. I have not had candy corn for a year.
I am here for one reason only.
A young teacher pregnant with child whom I am fond of looks into silent sneaky partner, my cupped hand filled with candy corn, and she laughs.
That is what makes you so awesome, she says. I love you.
I love her too, knowing she will not talk.
Upon the beautiful flowers
many dewdrops sit~wait
the dewdrops are filled with powers
reaching from the flower towers
what did the water drops create
what will become their fate.
Upon my morning window sill
a beautiful redbird
in this winter's day with a chill
the dripping dewdrops are a thrill
they both sit there so very still
birds watched the drops without a word
dewdrops and birds I heard.
Upon the huge tall old oak tree
a dewdrop from a leaf
I saw a yellow bumble bee
she was flying high~low and free
she needs some cool water not beef
the dewdrop was relief.
Upon the big yard of green grass
the neighbors love to see
many dewdrops looking like glass
this yard will definitely pass
ask what is their magical key
I work on my one knee.
Date Written: 6/17/2022
We are a plethora of flavors,
Bubbling in a silver crockpot
Seductively salty, carrot friendly,
Our potatoes cut in squarest chunks.
We bob up, and see our reflection in an oval lid.
Huge woman plops a spoon in our swirling liquid.
She takes a slurp of us. Stirs in an extra bunch
Of cut tomatoes. Our carrots back off,
Allowing the red chunks the necessary space to sink.
Happily steaming, simmering, we are soon poured into bowls
Our peas and broth wink when we see our friend,
Cornbread, oozing with melted honey butter on a blue plate
Next to our matching blue resting bowl.
Being consumed with cornbread is preferable
To being swallowed with those salty pointed crackers.
The whole family feels appreciated and loved. Cornbread winks.
Giants will be sleeping soon. Feeling the gentle rise and fall
of their warm tummies we will laugh, and dance and sing,
Proud that we are responsible for their satisfactory sleep.