over romaine
greens. I wonder
at the pleasure
these pungent
fungi bring —
gold in a chef’s pan.
White truffle oil,
my preference,
more peppery
than the black.
Makes sense —
being part Sicilian —
that the robust Italian
whites appeal more
than the tamer ebon
French ones.
All sub rosa
root-clinging
symbiotic fruiting
tubers — a cabal
of crafty warty walnuts.
Beware the poisonous
false ones. A bit of
truffle oil in brash
hands can be
dreadful excess. Know
the supreme risk —
a snuffling sow
with a bent
for ravenous love
when that special
pheromone flares. Still,
it’s truffles’ hidden
nature that intrigues —
concealed
like the echoed
treasure of my
memories,
my musings,
secrets I let
drizzle
in
my
mind.
1 Comment
December 26, 2009 at 2:12 am
I love how this poem is drizzled over the page like its subject. Mmmmm. Very sensual. I think I need some white truffles soon.