NOT ONLY THAT, HE CAN COOK TOO - Laura Lee
No herringbone brick walkways in this dirt garden, Just hard-packed earth, cool under my feet in the shade Of the scarlet runner beans climbing their pole. Vichyssoise served from a silver tureen aboard the Queen Mary Reaching through the foliage to harvest the glossy aubergines, Bell peppers still ripening in the hot sun as I pick them, Mud-splashed tomatoes, broken stems releasing an aroma of high summer, I fill my apron like Nellie in the paw-paw patch. American boy slurping soupe de poisson and vin ordinaire I carry the loot into the ancient kitchen where you're making your bones. You go to work cutting and chopping, Your Sabatier performing a scherzo of slicing. Tromping over wet-black sand along the Bassin d'Arcachon The table is laid with white linen. The sun goes down and we dine. A Gitane glows against the night sky. Your first oyster, a gift from Monsieur Saint-Jour