And since-- and this is-- this is a poem with that poet Claire
Malroux in it, and it's called "Omelette"
and refers to many lunches that we had together,
during which we--
Claire is also herself a very, very well-known translator
of poetry-- in particular, of Emily Dickinson--
into French.
And so this is called "Omelette,"
and it has an epigraph from a poem by Randall Jarrell.
His poem was called "War," and the line
is, "You can't break eggs without making an omelette."
That's what they tell the eggs.
[CHUCKLE]
First, chop an onion and saute it separately
in melted butter--
unsalted, preferably.
Add mushrooms, add girelles in autumn, stir until golden
and gently wilted.
Then break the eggs as neatly as possible,
crack on the copper lip of the mixing bowl,
beat frothing yolks and whites together,
thread with a filet of cream.
You've melted more butter in a scrupulous 7-inch iron skillet.
Pour the mixture in swiftly, keep flame high
as edges puff and whiten, lower the flame to a reminiscence.
When I was 20, living near Avenue D,
there were Sunday brunches at 4 o'clock.
Eggs were the necessary protein hangovers
bourbon and pot demanded.
Style, that's what faggots--
that's what they call themselves--
used to make dreary illness and poverty glitter--
not scrambled eggs, not fried eggs;
Jamesian omelettes skill and gesture.
Soon after, illness wouldn't mean hangovers.
How many of those glamorous headachy chefs
sliding perfect crescents onto disparate platters
are middle-aged now?
Up, flame, and push the edges in carefully-- egg,
liquid flows out toward the perimeter.
Now, when the center bubbles thickly,
spoon in the mushroom and onion mixture.
Though the platonic ideal omelette has only hot,
loose egg at its heart, with fresh herbs,
like the one that Lambert Strether lunched on, and fell
for that lost French lady.
Those were the lunchtime omelettes Claire and I,
three decades after the Alphabet Avenue brunch,
savored at the women's bookshop Salon De Thé,
our Manila folders waiting for coffee--
Emily Dickinson's rare tenses and amphibious metaphors.
Browned, molten gold ran on the platter--
a homely lyric with salad garland.
Outside it rained in June--
or was spring for a brief February thaw.
Now the bookshop's one more left bank restaurant,
with books for atmosphere, omelettes aren't served there.
With-- you've been using it all along--
a wood spatula, flip one half of the omelet over the girolles
garnished other.
Eat it with somebody you'll remember.