‘…My Victim, Which I Slay for You…’

From the Armadio degli Argenti of Blessed John of Fiesole, OP (Fra Angelico), c. 1450

‘Assemble yourselves, make haste, come together from every side to my victim, which I slay for you, a great victim upon the mountains of Israel: to eat flesh, and drink blood.’

Ezekiel 39:17

Frog legs are fair game.

http://korrektivpress.com/2014/03/26428/

San Diego, Wisconsin

san diego wisconsin

Thanks to WDRT.

(Listen at about the 2:20 mark.)

Beef Wellington the Third

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All manner of things went well for the sendoff last night of Aust(ral)ian bro-in-lo back to Upsidedownland (“What do you call someone from Down Under who has a suntan from Down Under?” “Aussie Ozburned”).

In what was a third go around on this sumptious recipe, my sister-in-law Lady Wellington  outdid herself  – and thanks to the help of my other sister-in-law Lady Duxelles  with just the right balance of moist and dry, these two and a third (not pictured – it still had another ten minutes in the oven) were just about as good as could exceed expectations.

Accompanying this beef’s rich pageant, my brother-in-law, the Duke of Hollandaise, added his pedigree to the work of my wife, Mistress Broccoli.  And it was all was washed down with a tarry fruity cabernet sauvignon brought to the table by yours truly, the Earl of Carnivor  – along with another in honor of my other other sister-in-law Lady Middlesister – who could not be present for the occasion. Brother in law Sir Mashalot also couldn’t be there, although his presence was evoked in spud-acular fashion.

After a reading and buttering of the royal rolls, all and sundry set to for a repast that present generations will be savoring long into the future…

Walker Pecy alert

Percy_zps6e9eef15“Funny, bourbon does for me not what Proust’s madeleine did for him, but rather what I suspect bourbon actually did for Walker Percy…and Norman Mailer, William Faulkner, Janis Joplin, Ulysses S. Grant and every other bourbon drinker right on back to that seminal moment, lost in the mists of time, when some nameless Scotch-Irish frontiersman far out in the untracked wilderness of Kan-Tuck-Kee discovered that Indian corn worked as well for distilling as barley: it gets me drunk.”

— Aaron Walton, getting perhaps just a touch reductive in the comments section of this piece on the “real” American character of bourbon whiskey over at The New Yorker. Which reminds me, I’ve got a bit on Percy and bourbon sitting unfinished on the old hard drive, back from the time Potter and Jobe and I crashed the opening ceremonies at the Walker Percy Center for Writing & Publishing…

Thanksgivings Past

2005
Webb Thanksgiving Day Turkey Dinner: A Family Recipe

Ingredients:
Love
Angst
Impatience
Ambivalence
Impetuousness
Stubbornness
One Large Turkey

Directions:
Bake at 350 degrees for four hours or until done. Baste every 30 minutes.

2006
God in the Streets of New York City

2007
Humpford

To add to the grief, Humpford’s grandfather (Humpford the First) died of a heart attack later that year, a few days after a dismal Thanksgiving, and only in his mid-sixties.

2008
Happy Thanksgiving From Korrektiv

turkey hunt

2009
What Have You Done for Me Lately?
(by Lickona)

2010
Advent Meditation: Thanksgiving Edition (Guest Post by CNB)

Be patient therefore, brethren, unto the coming of the Lord. Behold, the husbandman waiteth for the precious fruit of the earth, and hath long patience for it, until he receive the early and latter rain. Be ye also patient; stablish your hearts: for the coming of the Lord draweth nigh. –James 5:7-8

2011
A Platter of Live Turkey at Dinner!
(by Holland Potter, age 8)

Lucy and Charlie were looking out the window on Thanksgiving. They were waiting for their aunt, uncle, grandma, and grandpa to show up at their house. They were going to have a Thanksgiving dinner together.

When the grandparents got there, they all sat down at the table to prepare the Thanksgiving dinner. When they opened the platter to get the turkey, the turkey was alive!

The turkey ran around the kitchen and pooped in the pudding. Then it sat in the pumpkin pie and while it sat in the pumpkin pie it peed! Then it got up and barfed on the floor! Lucy got up, carefully to avoid the barf, and grabbed a knife and slashed the turkey right in the head! The turkey flopped right over and then its head fell off.

They went to the store and got another turkey, and that turkey didn’t cause any trouble.

2012
Cooking with Mel

In which JOB talks turkey

wild-turkey-small

This from my boss’s radio show.

(I show up at around the 37:00 mark.)

So, of course, another poem…

Wheels Off, Hubcaps Flying

- For Chris Carstens

Like a discovered paramour on the wing
The big bird bounded headlong
Over the highway’s single-filed field of vision.
Baroque-phallused, this inverted comma
Paused mid-air, defying death with arrow-headed syntax.

Its gnarled feathers gripped a roost of air
And plunged, obscene as a pump handle,
In awkward, under-practiced flight,
Like a virginal attempt at Kitty Hawk
Or a gunning last gasp for von Richthofen.

What’s with this ungainly target of esteem
And approbation? – and especially come November
And early spring, the twin seasons
When wood smoke’s scent is best
To itch the scratch of fletch and knock –

At first sight it’s all bagpipe
On a pair of reptilian feet, a bellows married
By nature to a pink bassoon with black eyes. Second looks show
Its sixth sensed allowances. That parched tickle
At the back of the throat recalls

The amber verities, bottlenecked in highest proof.
But with a tug and wag of gorgeously engorged wattles
And a tom-tom’s tympanic swagger
The musical tickle at the back of its own throat
Rakes blood’s embers to say:

Play with me and you play with cunningness
Only matched by the fire of forest floor decay.
A clever fire throbbing snood and beard
And setting woods in early darkness,
Dripping with dawn or dusk, rain or snow

And hunter’s sweaty self-chastisement,
The kind that comes from spinning tires in the brain,
Frustrated with ice and mud,
Waiting with tearful patience in too much quiet
For the leafy dance of horny spurs to end:

As carelessly, fearlessly, Tom and Jake slough off
The forest silence, dodging
Thick vertical lines of timber, ducking through
A parenthetical mess of underbrush
And zipping safely past shafts of profanity

Steel-tipped with love and razor-sharp with hate.

Edible Too

So, this happened…

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Doe and nubby buck fawn. At about 7:30 this a.m. Opening day.

(Extra special heaps of thanks to Bro-in-Lo Canisius for field dressing (two in less than 15 minutes) and helping (OK, mostly by himself) lugging deer out of bottom valley!)

And so, a poem is in order, no?

The Last Hunt

The new snow’s whiteness
Blanks the prayerful bend of the bare-branched trees
Giving them a cold but muscular look.
We cannot see the deer for all the snow.
It was bully-blowing all night, yet meekly lacking,
Clinging to embraced bareness. No warmth
For the trees, and no warmth for us either.

And something gets in behind the grey skies
As if to blow down on us all the souls
Ever risen from the dead. Something old which
Comes back every winter, a habit of wind,
Late day, a shadow’s vows. But soon we see,
In the clean snow, something else. A gunshot
Reports through the valley.

Then, as we walk
Up valley, we suddenly come to a sign
Which our father and uncles may have known,
Learned first through cold tears and piss-cold pants –
Another sign snow cannot hide – and red scarves
Of blood leave tracks which better prepare us
For our own last dash across an open field.

Edible

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The wife has been busy…

 

Inedible

indedible