Phacellophora camtschatica, the fried egg jellyfish. Really.
Today I thought I might just lay my head on the keyboard and see what it spelled out, but then I saw a discussion on Dining@Large about putting a fried egg on a bison burger. Here you go. This is probably the only verse meditation upon that subject. I didn't think much of this poem at first, but it grew on me a little. Mixing some Sartrian (is that a word?) existential concepts into lunch dishes is novel. With Being-in-itself you get egg roll. Definitely a nominee for the Pretentious Bastard Hall of Fame.
The Oeuf of Paris
A man is what he eats, but a people eats what it is.
– Socrates
In the land of super suede brief cases
all I see is, how would Sartre have said it,
the thing-in-itself – the egg.
“It is the French way.”
Thai cabbage salad with peanut
sauce: where’s the spice, the umph?
Instead a hard boiled egg on top.
“But that is how it is done.”
A floating oeuf dur regatta on
Bengali shrimp soup?
“It’s the essence of life.”
It may have been a life, but on a pizza,
it’s an arrogant slimy eye.
The thing-in-itself, for Parisians
is being Parisian, seeing
themselves winking back
from their pizza, being-as-food.
1999
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1 comment:
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