Ode to Garlic
In the morning, cold with dew,
there is nothing like the smell of you.
Freshly peeled and crushed just so,
in the morning how I love you so.
Garlic! Garlic! How you linger
in the air and on my fingers.
Holding court all the day
just so you can hear me say,
"O Garlic! Inside my breast your pungence swells
and lo, therein, does ring my bells."
Some say to Amaryllidaceae do you belong
with shallots, onions, chives, and leeks.
But these are merely posers, as to the
Allium longiscuspis you do keep.
In the wild the others grow, but
you are carefully cultivated just so.
They lure cows to eat their tops
which makes their milk a great big flop.
For days upon end onion-flavored milk
assails noses of farmers who cry, "Oh, ick!"
But, Garlic, never do you wander.
Of yourself you never ponder.
Stay in your place, you faithfully do,
on meats and salads and in my stews.
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| Your Magnificently Methodical Southern Woman as she contemplates her morning garlic. |
The Most Brilliant Woman in the World
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