Never challenge an onion to a game of strip poker. ~ D. Bonta

Ashes can substitute for black pepper in a pinch.
Best used fresh, like everything else; and only sparingly.
Carbon: it all breaks down into carbon anyway—
don’t worry, no need to bring out the syrup of ipecac,
expectorate, induce. What’s the most odious thing you’ve had to eat?
Foie gras, shudders my friend the wealthy doctor. Ducks fed
grain by gavage— two to four times a day, the animals
held, their throats expanded under a funnel fitted to a tube.
It’s this wild dilation and overfeeding that renders
king-sized livers: two lobes of mousse-like, buttery consistency.
Leafed out like that upon a plate, punctuated with a dollop of
mustard cream or raspberry confit: could you bear to eat with
nary a twinge of conscience or remorse? It may be that a stew
of carrots, lentils, and potatoes is neither innocent: some hand
pulled tubers out of the soil, peeled or pared and sliced them into
quadrants on the chopping board. You know how dominoes cascade,
rush river-like? Caveat: they fall at the merest touch. Why
sing to pickled things in a minor key? For
the ice sheet in Greenland that has almost all melted, for sea
urchins that, even if they might not be currently endangered, could
very soon wind up on that list: admire their powerful scraping jaws
which I found out are called “Aristotle’s lanterns.” None will be
exempt from ruin and devastation— so quit behaving like
you’ll have a golden ticket out. Heed the poet who points out
zen in the onion’s innermost chamber: stripped clean, empty.


In response to Via Negativa: How to cook.

One Reply to “Ecology”


    None will be/ exempt from ruin and devastation— so quit behaving like/ you’ll have a golden ticket out. Heed the poet who points out/ zen in the onion’s innermost chamber: stripped clean, empty.—From “Ecology”, Luisa A. Igloria, Via Negativa, 08-02-12

    There must be a way of finding out the core
    Of what makes a man a human being.
    Stripped of its whorls, the onion is empty.
    Stripped of his words, can man survive?

    Is language then a licence to his being here?
    Will it save him from being forgotten there,
    Like pebbles dropped along the shore,
    As landmarks of how far he has walked?

    When washed away by evening tide, all
    Footprints cannot be retrieved by palaver,
    They, too, are lost like the stone markers
    On the shore, they have never been there.

    Trees talk with the rustle of their leaves,
    Homo sapiens with a language of sounds
    That defines his world, paints his reality.
    When sounds are gone, would sense also go?

    Everything in its time will be nothing,
    Save the language he shaped his time with,
    The signs will remain, their meanings, too.
    It is his only shield against his final ruin.

    —Albert B. Casuga

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