Long before we’d reach the border fence, Tante Elfrieda proclaimed that her lips could never again be crossed by paprika. Given the ruddy wash of this spice through Hungarian cuisine, her proclamation seemed wondrously remote from reality. Like Charlotte Corday thinking that slaying Marat in his bath could end the bloody aftermaths of the French Revolution. Onkel Theo – a stalwart drinker – accompanied Tante Elfi along rain-damp cobblestones as she paled at menu after goulash-laden menu. Against all odds, one passed muster. Thus it was that, in 1987, from a plate of tough little quenelles, I was to first taste venison.
Image: Alan Baillargeon.
Kathy, I came by to thank you for your comment at Word Garden the other day, in which you referenced the saying about never confessing to a fox. I expanded on that and got quite a nice poem out of it! :-)
ReplyDeleteYou, luv, are BRILLIANT! :)
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