I’ll probably live a lifetime never eating a rabbit. The species is probably very relieved that its women don’t lay marbled-sized eggs or bigger. And so few people in my neighborhood and beyond make time to plant a lettuce patch. Mr. McGregor, the curmudgeon, smells like stale pipe tobacco, and lord knows he hasn’t scrubbed his garden trousers in a month. Lagomorphs can smell his breed coming from a mile away.
If I won’t cook a rabbit, I can still dream it. The colors of the old paper in the French parlor are pasted in my memory of a past that happened to other people. I was born on a French farm in 1893. Which reminds me of an old poem I wrote back when I was a wannabe French chef in a rinky-dink baked potato and cocaine waitress restaurant.
My Son Came Home With A Grimace So I Killed His Surprise Puppy
Outside of Arles, France, 1906
Ah Pierre my good boy!
It’s dusk and you brought me our axle, no?
Saul said no charge
for a bag of beans at harvest.
Here Pierre have some bread
I have a surprise for you
No thank you father
I’m not hungry.
My son, you’ve traveled all morning
over our land and Phillipe’s too,
through the Black Forest
and on the plateau,
down into the valley
Fifty kilometers will make a man hungry!
Yes father, I know
but I bought a Big Mac and for two extra francs
got this nifty stuffed Grimace
It’s big and purple and says
“comment allez-vous” when you pull on its ear.
Where are you going Papa?
Oh a puppy!
Father please no! Not that!