Ancient Casserole

My mother’s own mother
and many another

going back to Toulouse
have slaughtered the goose

the fowl and the pig
to make a fine stew twenty quarts big.

I stand by the oven trying to peek
at what’s taken all day but seemed like a week.

Then I open the door and what should appear
but a garlic herb crust quite golden and dear.

Though it may seem a bit dumb,
I poke under the crumb,

but instead of finding a fatty feast
I discover a dish fit for neither woman nor beast.

The white tarbais beans are not on my side
but poke all about quite shriveled and dried.

The bouquet garni has crumbled.
My hopes have now tumbled.

The duck is amock.
I’ve run out of luck.

Oh my. Oh my.
Hello and goodbye.

Ave atque vale,
cassoulet.

--published by Burning Word