Born of leftovers in the fridge
So unique in your being, yet without recipe
What Metaphor shall I ascribe to thee?
Thrown about, as all food is, in the maelstrom of the kitchen
The eternal triage:
The privileged awarded their place of honour in a meal
The expired cast aside to the Hades of the trash
But for those who fit no mold, the loners, the rebels, the misunderstood
For those who walk the tightrope between good and evil
Where doth the tightrope lead?
There is but one place.
O mysterious rogue Fried Rice, lest the masses look askance upon you,
Lest they sneer and call you "Aquatic Snail" or "Skunk Cleaner Shrimp"
Lowly Scraper of Algae in the great ecosystem of the refrigerator,
Let those who would cast aspersions first look within their own hearts
and realize that you embody not only the deepest flame of humanity,
But the very fundamental essence
Of Life itself.
For does not our blue planet stand on the cusp
Between the frozen wastelands of Mars and the unbearable furnace of Venus?
Does not life thrive at the edges, at the interfaces?
Does not the heart beat quickest when love is as yet uncertain?
All through our lives we tread our mundane, linear path
One foot following another, one day inevitably following the next
But you, Fried Rice, are unbound by these shackles.
Not a mere meal are you, but a conversation!
A conversation transcending time.
By the grace of you, the I of yesterday and the I of tomorrow
Engage in a lively discourse of colour, flavour, and texture.
For when on Tuesday I cast in a bit of broccoli,
The pork of Sunday is given a new context, a new life.
Perhaps "conversation" is too poor a term for this gift.
A dance it is!
A social dance. A whirling dance through time
For after a brief Allemande Left with some bean sprouts,
The I of Tuesday stands face to face with the I of Wednesday
Sunday's pork has moved off around the circle, gone but not forgotten
And so the dance continues.
Yes, Fried Rice, though some may see you as a lowly caterpillar,
The discerning eye can see the butterfly you are,
And in the mesmerizing depth of the patterns in your wings
Finely-chopped beauty lies side-by-side with greasy, charred tragedy,
The ad-hoc ingredients
In the stir-fry of our lives.
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