Monday, December 8, 2008

Pigeon Pie !

I mentioned below somewhere that one (of many) recurring themes in my artistic efforts, both in photos and writing, is that of roadkill. It was no surprise then when a few years back I received a gift of a book titled : "How to Cook Roadkill ; Goremet Cooking". I am not making this up, the ISBN number is 0-9637062-0-9, and re-reading the introduction of that litterary gem this evening, after coming across the photo here taken in St Remy de Provence, France in July 2007, I realized how pertinent this subject may become to alot of people in these worrisome times of skyrocketing unemployment.
I quote : "Preamble : All over North America, the world for that matter, hundreds of thousands of families are finding it ever more difficult to make ends meet; the highest single cost after the monthly commitment for a roof over one's head is the monthly food bill. At the very same time our world over, hundreds of thousands of animals, birds, reptiles, and insects are killing themselves by coming into contact with moving vehicles on national highways, residential streets, country back roads and lanes. Approximately 193 million pounds of meat go unclaimed, not to mention the considerable amount of protein going to waste. We would strongly suggest it's time hungry families and those wanting to increase their disposable incomes be shown how to benefit from the carnage on our highways. We feel the lack of available information on the subject has been the reason the two remain apart. This void has now been finally filled with the exciting publication of How To Cook Roadkill : Goremet Cooking."
Couldn't have said it better myself; next time I see a pigeon like this one that had just been run over by a taxi minutes earlier, I may just have to scrape it up and bring it home to make a pigeon pie. Quite a delicacy in some circles.
Oh yes ! Almost forgot... there is a poem that goes with this :
Oh Christ!
There’s a pigeon on my plate
Pecking at crumbs
And defecating
With little squits
And slithering gurgles
Shall I plant my fork
Deep in his back
Between his wings
Take my blunt knife
To the tender throat?
Good God!
But I do so hate
To have to pick feathers
From my mashed potatoes
And he’s sure to flap
As if he were winging his way
Through a sky of pastel blue
On his way to Zanzibar
When the shining tines
Impale him

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