Visiting the Edge

The mad man who lives at the edge tells me
of this mostarda de Cremona, this mix of
mustard and fruits in a syrup. He says it is
poured over pork roast, a boneless loin cut
and pierced with garlic and rosemary and
browned in a cast iron pan until barely cooked.
As the roast is allowed to rest it is cut thick.
And when the resting is over, the mostarda
is poured onto the slices, slow and liberal.
He speaks of this sauce as a grail I must seek,
that if I do not undertake the quest it is possible
I could become lost in words and more words,
or worse, trying to save the world. I’ve no reason
to trust him other than I’m weary of reasons.
So I swear myself an enemy of our culture’s
logorrhea as he offers me a glass of red. This
man has no tolerance for white. His madness
demands color. He says so will mine. I left with a lust
for the sweetness that cuts through the mustard.
 
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2 Responses to Visiting the Edge

  1. simplysue says:

    Wow. This makes me cry. I am looking for mostarda de Cremona – both literal and figurative:).

  2. Gwen Acres says:

    “…his madness demands red”. Wow, life lived in colour!

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