GIZZARDS

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I cooked gizzards for the cats and they came out so rubbery un-edible that I googled recipes. At least on my first attempt they tried to chew them before spitting them out, arranging them all over the lanai, with regiments of ants surrounding each morsel in a trail. Rather than use my vegan pressure cooker I decided on the 5 hour boiling recipe. I dumped the rest of the gizzards from the refrigerator that I didn’t want to go to waste into cold water, sullying my French and pristine clean kosher skillet.

(WHAT IS MY PROBLEM WITH WASTE AND WHY DO I WASTE MYSELF?)

A cauldron of nasty odors incensed this vegetarian all Saturday. It took HOURS of stabbing until I felt them tender. Then I replaced the boiling water and I fried the last of the cheap pork, let it all rest, then cut it with a dull steak knife so it took even longer, into the tiniest kitty bite pieces. Service wasn’t until close to 8.

They barely sniffed immediately turned tail. All three left the feeding area in protest. I waited 5 minutes, bagged and refrigerated the rest. They didn’t even taste them this time. When I woke up I retrieved the gizzards from the fridge and warmed them on the counter for an hour. My morning epiphany was to pour one small can of cat food over the top which they licked off.  The wild chickens, that I try not to feed, gobbled up the two plates in minutes saving my project ultimately from the ants.

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I dream of cats

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Verdant marble
pink nosed
dead cats
with their tongues out
Sphinx all American 
and Siamese.
Someday there will only be cats.
Every projection white whiskers.
Grey hair
in the light room now
with the sofas and a pagoda.
Asleep curled around the cat
turning into me and I into her
napped, in the hammock
near a turned stupa
in the great golden outdoor studio.

J. Pompei