By the window with lace curtains,
she sits at her desk
and takes a lined composition book from the shelf.
Dipping her pen
into the bottle of blue ink, she thinks
for only a moment.

In her elegant hand, she writes:
"Carefully cut out all shot.
Wash thoroughly but quickly,
using soda in the water;
rinse and dry with a clean cloth.”

She blots the page and ponders
her next instruction for preparing
roast partridge, pheasant, quail, or grouse.

“Stuff the birds and sew up.
Skewer legs and wings to the body,
larder the breast with very thin slices
of fat salt pork, place them in the oven,
and baste with butter and water
before taking up, having seasoned them
with salt and pepper. Make a gravy of
the drippings thickened with browned flour.
Boil up and serve.”

The prisms on the lamp beside her
catch the sun and make
bright patterns on the page.
Her mind delights in beauty,
in poetry. She, lover of British literature,
has named her boys Milton,
                                  Lloyd,
                                  Cyril,
                                  Richard,
all hunters,
all hungry.

She closes the book,
rises with a sigh,
ties apron strings around
her slender waist, and
returns to the kitchen
this long afternoon.

© by Marsha Foss.
Used with the author’s permission.