Lamb & Everything

I.

Every supper is the last supper.

Once upon a time, I cooked a meal with infinite courses. I was cooking for you, my friends.

It began with cheeses carved from the caves where the goats make their hermitage. I served the cheeses with grapes and blood oranges.

Next I served you tiny lamb rib chops, marinated in white wine and nutmeg and vanilla bean and pepper, seared with sea salt on cast iron. I served the lamb "popsicles" with watercress salad and maple-candied crispy prosciutto.

Next I served you lamb loin chops braised in a fenugreek white wine cream sauce with baby potatoes.

Those were the first three courses. It was the beginning of spring, and the crocuses and periwinkles in the yards thought it was the beginning of everything.


II.

In a dream, my lover is wearing my apron. He looks good in frills. He says "I'm playing domestic now." There are animals inside our house chasing each other. A dog catches a rabbit in his mouth. My lover pries it loose and hands it to me, "take it outside, where it will be safe from us," he says. I take the small tawny creature in my hands and carry it out, through a garden of blackberry brambles, lit up in the moonlight with dew. I must carry it farther away. If I set it free here, this tiny wild thing will destroy my garden.