This macho-looking marrow with a skin as dark
as Damascenes has a longer pedigree than mine,
having appeared at Byzantine repasts
in a supporting role, and solo at the trencher-board
in more ascetic shrines. Our first encounter,
other than tavernas and the greengrocers,
was in the fields at Marathon, a now bucolic site,
where aubergines grow plump in soil that soaked
up Greek and Persian blood, porous as sponge, or bread
in oil, parched as a throat that thirsts for wine.
I never expel bitter juices as the recipes advise;
the richness offered to the eye invites
more robust appetites. Though I may miss
the island vintages, their salty trace,
and feta from the half-wild goats, the oregano
aftertaste, the residue of history still
lends resonance to ritual, each time I take
an aubergine, a pan, some oil, a kitchen knife.
Aubergine
© Copyright: Jena Woodhouse, 2003
Свидетельство о публикации №103030200146
Свидетельство о публикации №103030200146
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