“By all means, add butter – REAL butter – and as much as you want. Deny yourself nothing that feeds your body and soul – butter and ice cream are two that come to mind without even thinking.” — The Breadmaker
I'm wondering how the neighbors will feel about
the new cow I’ve led to the garden.
She's the finest Holstein you’ll see;
white as church linen and black as the hour
before dawn. I'll sing her the sweetest
hymns of salvation from the Second
Great Awakening and whisper
how beautiful she is.
She’ll feed only on fine English roses
and their dew, and In return,
she'll fill bukets of such sweet milk.
My mother and aunt remember
how to make ice-cream, but
it’s all electric and runny;
I’ll have to summon the saints
for the butter churn scrolls,
and of course I’ll have to call work
on Monday to say cannot come back;
I’m digging a creek and I’m knee-deep
in cow shit. Which will be good for the roses.