Narrative Poem: Shrimp Toast.

 

My Dear Children:

So we bought two pounds of cooked shrimp yesterday at Smith's. Why? I dunno. We just saw the shrimp glowing white and orange in the butcher's display case and decided we must have some at all costs. I'm afraid I'm becoming a bad influence on your mother -- since that's the kind of thing I'm always doing, but she is much more circumspect and prudent.

Anywho. So we brought it home and ate tons of it. But two pounds is a lot of shrimp. So I made a shrimp salad for the neighbors. But when your mother learned I only used 6 shrimp in the salad (they were BIG shrimp!) she gave me a pitying look and said something about somebody being cheap. I will not repeat her exact words, as they have no direct bearing on this story.

So this morning I decided to make something with a boatload of shrimp in it. Working purely on adrenaline and intuition I laid down a layer of buttered bread in a tin foil pan, then topped it with shrimp, then topped THAT with processed cheese, and finished with a slurry of buttermilk, sour cream, whipping cream, and parmesan cheese. I poured that over the whole mess, then sprinkled it with smoked paprika. Covered it and popped it in the over for 40 minutes at 350 degrees.

But your mother took it out and told me that it was just a gooey melted mess, and not cohering. So I put it back in and baked it uncovered for another 20 minutes. The bottom got burned and it still did not solidify -- until I took it out and let it cool. The next hurdle was what to name the darn stuff. Shrimp toast? Shrimp scampi? Shrimp chowder? Shrimp gone bad? Shrimp a la Torkilini? I can't believe it's Shrimp? We settled on Welsh Rarebit.

Placed on a bed of lettuce and drizzled with olive oil, with a bit of canned diced tomato on top, it didn't look too bad. Both of us were afraid to taste it, so we gave it away with a lot of your mother's peanut butter cookies as a bribe. 

Now, at least, the shrimp is all gone. But somebody just gave us a rotisserie chicken, which we will turn into chicken salad for tonight. I insisted we put grapes in it. Your mother decided not to fight me on this whim. I can get pretty feisty when I'm aroused -- or just bored of doing rewrites all day. I accidentally erased one of the rewrites just as it was getting ready to submit, and we couldn't get it back. So had to start all over again. Thunderation! I'd rather be out on the street getting quarters with my Clown for President sign. 

Roses are red/violets scream/life is a sleep/in which we all dream.

Love,

Heinie Manush.