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.