RE: [CH] Madison, IN - Hot Luck and Fiery Foods Exhibition

Alex Silbajoris (asilbajo@hotmail.com)
Wed, 5 Mar 2008 14:18:48 +0000 

> From: chilehead@pacbell.net

> Alright. So why is Indiana (wonderful state I'm sure) seemin top be the hot
> capital of the world?


That is no country for spices. The jam 
On larded biscuits spreads, among the sweets; 
The maraschino cherry on the ham, 
The salmon rolls, the crowded mac and cheese, 
Fish, flesh, or fowl, vegetables from a can, 
The mildest fare celebrated as treats. 
Caught in the sleepy blandness all will spurn 
Condiments laden with merciless burn. 

A bland palate is but a paltry thing, 
An idle tongue, a sweatless brow, unless, 
It joyously discovers capsaicin, 
And every meal with liveliness is blessed, 
No joy is greater than the harvesting 
Of sacred pods whom all proclaim the best. 
So I have traveled overland to be 
In the sandy, rolling fields of Waverly. 

Oh firey, potent pods upon the vine, 
Whose brilliant reds eclipse the tones of Fall, 
With every thunk, the bucket says you're mine, 
Had I but time, I would gather you all. 
Then after all my labors you will line 
The waiting shelves along my kitchen wall. 
Then be you dried, or potion held in glass, 
I'll always have you there to kick my ass. 

For ever more, when I will go to meet 
My fellow Chile Heads, each one will bring 
Some cherished sample of this Summer's heat 
To share with all, the blessed suffering; 
Then these red habs will make the scene complete, 
All friends together, in the firey ring. 
Then all will gladly raise a glass and toast 
The generosity of James the Host.



...which is a spoof of Sailing to Byzantium...


That is no country for old men. The young
In one another's arms, birds in the trees
- Those dying generations - at their song,
The salmon-falls, the mackerel-crowded seas,
Fish, flesh, or fowl, commend all summer long
Whatever is begotten, born, and dies.
Caught in that sensual music all neglect
Monuments of unageing intellect.

An aged man is but a paltry thing,
A tattered coat upon a stick, unless
Soul clap its hands and sing, and louder sing
For every tatter in its mortal dress,
Nor is there singing school but studying
Monuments of its own magnificence;
And therefore I have sailed the seas and come
To the holy city of Byzantium. 

O sages standing in God's holy fire
As in the gold mosaic of a wall,
Come from the holy fire, perne in a gyre,
And be the singing-masters of my soul.
Consume my heart away; sick with desire
And fastened to a dying animal
It knows not what it is; and gather me
Into the artifice of eternity. 

Once out of nature I shall never take
My bodily form from any natural thing,
But such a form as Grecian goldsmiths make
Of hammered gold and gold enamelling
To keep a drowsy Emperor awake;
Or set upon a golden bough to sing
To lords and ladies of Byzantium
Of what is past, or passing, or to come.



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