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.