Moules

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Hot on the heels of Pat and Tony’s orgasmic molluscs in deepest ‘fax, I thought I’d share this poem I found in the latest Rick Stein book.

It beautifully ties together the sensuality of eating mussels with your fingers and the appropriately timed  notion of eating as a form of worship (I think).

I pour on wine; it seems they beg for more

The beaked shells yearning wide as if in song –

Yet dumb – and lewdly lolling parrot tongues.

Cream licks the back of a spoon and drawls a slur

Of unctious benediction for this feast.

We smooth our cassocks; bow our heads; and eat.

Elizabeth Garrett

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