The Madness of Chefs
Let us now praise the madness of chefs, their exaltation
in searing meat, their need to murder, desire for stress
How they perform with the delicate, even sublime, fingering
blood and blossom and bean. How they scatter
the sacred herbs, distill the sea to fish and salt, the sky above
to yeast and bird. They conserve the fresh killed rabbit
salvaging even its scream in the night, preserving the offal
and tripe. They cooked the last supper for Jesus,
made cakes for Marie Antoinette, fixed a final meal
for the murderer, fed Ceasar and Cleo in bed. They plate
foie gras for the eyes but hope for it to be laid waste. Awash
with wine. The taste. The Taste. Heavenly vapors
invade the nose. What a long way they've come since they first
scorched meat. Since the cave man fed his spitting fire.
And as the fuel is shoved into the gut what a catharsis,
belly at peace, what a fulness of spirit and at the end, a busy bowel
dealing spotlessly with excrement. Let us all praise the madness
of chefs. Come to the table beggars and queens. They're at it again.
-Elaine Magarrell