Visiting the Edge

By John Blase | March 3, 2014 |

The mad man who lives at the edge tells me

of this mostarda de Cremona, this mix of

mustard and fruits in a syrup. He says it is

poured over pork roast, a boneless loin cut

and pierced with garlic and rosemary and

browned in a cast iron pan until barely cooked.

As the roast is allowed to rest it is cut thick.

And when the resting is over, the mostarda

is poured onto the slices, slow and liberal.

He speaks of this sauce as a grail I must seek,

that if I do not undertake the quest it is possible

I could become lost in words and more words,

or worse, trying to save the world. I’ve no reason

to trust him other than I’m weary of reasons.

So I swear myself an enemy of our culture’s

logorrhea as he offers me a glass of red. This

man has no tolerance for white. His madness

demands color. He says so will mine. I left with a lust

for the sweetness that cuts through the mustard.