The Gothic Gourmet washes her hands and flexes her fingers, warming up for the next taste Epiphany, knowing the Holy Ghost of Escoffier beams down approvingly from above, he whispers in her ear a fatal incantation; Blanquette de Veau à la Normande...

automatically, she reaches for the Calvados, considering... a hefty slug right then and there,so her gullet would burn just like her heart

She lines up her knives and boards with surgical precision, and ties herself into her apron, and onto her stove First, the shallots, carrots, bouquet garni-

The usual suspects of haute cuisine... Next, she’s cubing veal

(how to cube her lover’s heart, they’ll never teach at Cordon Bleu...)

powdering it all over in a see-through plastic bag, transparent like her motives..and if only it were just so easy to seal in his heart, it would be pink, like veal...sizzling in her pan...

Angry, then, her knife descends to guillottine the leeks for sins

Blurring fast on the beechwood board

She’ll flambé him, all right...

pouring on the Calvados setting it ablaze,

calmly shaking the pan around, and now..

.in they go, the studded onion clove, the shallots, carrots, apples, the Meursault,

so enticing...exactly what she’s doing, really,

waiting for this dish sensation to deliver the coup-de-grace her body didn’t..

. She sips her Calva, deep in thought

Making her seduction plans

High time to start dessert, she thinks picking over raspberries, wondering that peaches are so pretty, aren’t they

so much easier to peel and slice than her lover’s ever been...