Edna's Special Recipes No. 4:

"Le pit bull à la français"

By Edna

At this festive time of year, why be boring and choose a turkey? Especially since the poor creatures have been reared intensively, overfed and fattened artificially, kept in a cage or in a filthy shed, never having seen the sunshine.

So Edna says: offer your family something rather different this Christmas, something a little unusual.  Had you ever considered an American Pit Bull Terrier?  A Pittie may not be the first thing which springs to mind for Christmas dinner and I admit there are some drawbacks: they are difficult to get hold of: neighbours' pets are a dangerous option and modern intensive Pittie-farming methods don't work as the brutes are far too savage for most farmhands; also they have relatively little meat on them, being mainly muscle and hatred. However, these negatives are offset by the joy any fun-loving chef will gain from killing the ******* and you, as hostess, will bask in the happiness of your family as they contemplate what they are about to receive.

First, it is important only to use a FRESHLY killed mutt as Pit Bulls do not freeze well (they struggle and bark for what seems ages once shoved into the freezer) and the pre-packed, pre-gutted ones you will find in your local supermarket are likely to have been battery-reared and force-fed in order to put a bit of extra flesh on. Believe me, nothing quite matches the texture of a freshly killed Pittie. And of course, you get the head as a bonus for your pet cats to play with.

A stranger's pet is my own preferred animal as a neighbour might see you skulking round their back garden with a pick axe and twig what you were up to. So, off you go in the car and seek out your dinner. Once you have found a suitable four-legged meal, follow the owner home, wait for the right moment and then get the chloroform pads in action. One for the owner and one for the dog. Pop the zonked-out mutt into the strong black canvas bag you brought with you, shove it into the back of the car and off you go!

So now you've got your hound: what's the best way to **** it?  We gourmets have argued over this for years: decapitation, drowning, hanging, electrocution or beating to death with a sledgehammer? My own favourite method is to drop the drugged brute into a large tin bathtub of warm water and then add the 240v power cable. The expression on the dog's face when the volts kick in is fabulous but you need to be careful in case it leaps out of the bath and goes for your jugular. Hanging from a high tree, accompanied by extensive tenderizing with a baseball bat is a safer but equally enjoyable option. Two further benefits are that hanging is not so messy as the drowning/electrocution route and the whole family can watch a hanging in safety instead of having to risk the dog leaping out of the tub.

Once you are sure the dog is dead (about five minutes after it's stopped kicking and moaning), take it down and cut the head off with a cleaver.  Carefully remove the ears for use as decoration. If you have no cats to give the skull to, shove it on the top of your Christmas tree to provide a family talking point.

Next, skin the dog and discard, bearing in mind that it would be unwise to leave the telltale evidence for the binmen. My flaying advice is to use a sharp knife starting at the **** and working my way up to the neck. Be sure to remove all the ****** parts, as these do NOT taste good. It's nice to roast a Pittie whole, but few people have an oven big enough (unless you scored for a puppy that is). So, carefully cut up the cadaver into two or three separate joints. The following recipe is suitable for a nice shoulder or leg.

Rub all over with freshly ground sea salt and black pepper; make a series of deep incisions in the flesh at two-inch intervals and carefully insert slivers of fresh garlic. Place in your largest Le Creuset ***, with two pints of Evian water, a half-bottle of a full-bodied red wine, half a dozen French oignons and bring to the boil. Then reduce the heat and simmer for two to three hours, depending on weight. Be sure to check every 20 minutes that the liquid hasn't boiled away! Add extra wine and olive oil as necessary. Once the meat is tender, your dog is ready!

Serve your Pit Bull with mashed potatoes and a nice salad. I find a fruity Beaujolais drinks very well with stewed Pittie à la français but my paddy friends swear by Guinness. Whatever your tipple, enjoy our meal! And think: because of your caring approach to Christmas, one more turkey will live to see New Year and the world is rid of another Pit Bull horror.

Purple hibiscus,
gathered from depth of the woods.

Serpents, in the wild,
captured for haute couture.

Coffee beans,
defecated by civets.

Foie gras, caviar, champagne flutes,
Evian, sipping her piña colada,
getting her tan.

Serpent’s skin,
rubbing elbows,
with the alta sociedad,
plucking her eyebrows,
rouging her lips.

" And  lead  us  not  into  temptation,
but  deliver  us  from  evil. "

I am Heavy-lidded tonight,
Heavy-lidded
and inscrutable in my childhood.

My childhood that was spent hysterical in airing cupboards,
Where I wept unashamedly to the fixed God
And the stained glass, rose-hewn Angels of churches
That reeked of oak and holy water.
Where I sat in the trees, high on life and vanila-blue ice cream
And with knees skinned by the ****** pathways of woods
Or the safe gravels of playgrounds.

Where sunbursted mangoes dripped with musky-sanded chlorine
And the sun-hot metal gates clanged shut in the holiday winds.
Where rocks were thrown by fated children
And paper-cheap candy wrappers filled up plastic trash cans.
Where strange, money-minded housewives gaggled and giggled
With their ******-white teeth
And reflected my mother' s bipolar poverty
In the lenses of their plastic sunglasses.
Where my self-hemmed summer dresses were stained
With green and brown and red finger paint
As the days outside grew warmer
And the inside self grew older,
Colder.

Where I was punished for expression of the self
And confined to the sanatorium
Or the offices of Moloch's servants
On a sun-stippled day in May
Where my scrap-bruised hands
Were bandaged by the words of the Real World
And threatenings of expulsion.
Where I hid behind felted display boards
On a landing somewhere near Neverland,
And lay and listened to the friend-fuelled ramblings of lost boys
Who sat and smoked in dormitories
And hallucinated Peter Pan.
Where I wrote self-indulgent fuckery in toilets
And drew crude artistries on mirrors with lipstick
And contemplated
Amo
Amas
Amat
As I sat and stared at my own disassociated hands.

Where paper aeroplanes flew and were thrown
By hungover kids in threadbare jumpers
With chewed cuffs and prefect badges,
Where holy Evian was poured over my head
After a long last day under a white marquee,
Where I disassembled pencil sharpeners with iron-smelling razor blades
and violated erasers at an exam hall desk in a stormy June.

Where I contemplated death;
Sang hymns in the darkness of my bedroom,
Took a blade to my flesh
Like the soulless piece of meat
That I believed myself to be.
Where I fell in love;
Hurt myself
More than anyone else ever did.
Where I read,
Where I wrote tear stained elegies
To my idols under the earth
And prayed that I
Would last
Just one more day.

This pioneer was Professor of Forensic Medicine Professor Forster before sending a plan for Christian birth. Waiting for the Unfortunate Biology, First Time, Time of Breath, The Magic of Living, The First Smoke, ***** Sophia, Star Gossip, Cool Shadow, Teddy Boy, Shirt, Hard N Cute, Love, Tribal Killer Mountain, Mount Evian, bird flu, beautiful olive oil kills new water, learns from the distance from death, the list of the dead, play and motivation sheets, the angry, dark, dark car rage. Black smoke teeth of the original number of beautiful characters. William's mother, mother of the United States English-speaking William Wilhelm, many life-threatening Asian products and so on; cannot control the physical characteristics of the Black Sea. There are many women and three siblings working in three cities in the White City. At night my son, the red dragon, holy, my life is lost to the Russian girl in the corrupt and sovereign world. The eighth year of the aircraft was the first time the airplanes, eyes, drinking water, birds and animals were planed on airplanes or heavy aircraft. In the mountains is the glory of the mountains, the sacredness of the prophets and the darkness in the darkness are not common. Letters - William William's beautiful mother, William William died in English and scared many things like the Asia-Pacific, Black and White. The new kit took 3 steps and was taken to the city. At night my son, the red dragon, holy, my life is lost to the Russian girl in the corrupt and sovereign world. Parents education program likes the same aircraft or super-plane, black and white girl. Big, beautiful young woman with great music on the turntable banner, big yellow banana star star star gold star star star star golden star change seasons sky blue sky wealth of the sea sun something always alive lifelike Christ at the heart of the royal rosetta tables and his three Legends of Three Romantic Romantic Romantic Romances; Three Romance Romantic Homes Want to Look For Home In The Middle Ages Looking for Spirituality. Julia is a Little Indoor Land of Latin Jupiter Jesus' Open Robe, Number of Women; We, Gordon, Amy, Wall, Strike, Piece of Glass; Lines of Literature, Giraffe, Nature Study, "Young Emperor", "Word", "Tree" Modern, medieval literature such as National Dragons. Richter B Central Conference Run Waiting for the Sky Dark Sky Gospel warning, earthquake, Christian woman, first, dishonest China, coaches, amateur, unforgettable England, animals, dogs, summer, Europe, heat, sea, heat, feet, stone, solo, neurotransmitters, conscience. Dream Society Dreams of the Society about the dreams of funny pink deities. Thanks to Sandwich's modern sandwiches, the prophet Ezekiel leaves the leaves and leaves with the help of angels and plastic. the only person

butterfly poets see the sparkly things
they live in gingerbread houses
they hear harp strings

butterfly poets eat cake everyday
they have rainbow sprinkles
in a jar put away

butterfly poets talk to hummingbirds
they have the perfect ears
to hear the pretty words

butterfly poets ride on angels wings
they wear rose colored glasses
they drink evian springs

She offered me a glass of water from the tap.
Delighted by the fact I happily accepted.
This wasn't like anything I've ever tasted.
I've never had Evian but I'd bottle it the same.
This particular taste wasn't accompanied by anything sour.
A strange taste that makes your face scrunch.
Before I knew it I drunk the glass whole.
Fiji water is an acquired taste.
But all in all I still enjoyed it.
I asked for another glass, feeling each ripple swish around my mouth.
All water doesn't taste the same and this by far.
The best water I ever tasted.
Ice included.
Fogging the outside of the glass.
Fingerprints forever stained.
If I was a fish I'd be in heaven.
The correctness of solely something to become apart of.
The importance that signifies how great this is.
The human tongue is an amazing thing.
Enjoying the spring water that flows directly from the well of your heart

Ash is rubble, and rubble is fire
We burnt our love with heart's desire
Just to captivate what is left in our hearts
A flame that never needs fuel to start.

Collapsed structures to fallen bridges
A thousand memories in a single picture
We caught eyes over the blazing sun
And reminisced on all the damaged we'd done.

Tears is to water as water is to oceans
We packed Evian bottles of emotions
Making sure no word was spoken or heard
Because exposing ourselves became absurd.

Who would expose themselves to flame?
Who would expose themselves to blame?
Who would expose themselves to falling apart?
Who would expose themselves to a broken heart?

Birds of a feather

Share a binary plumage

One

Mostly with better weather

Hey Sam I am    With the band

Cannot without

One another

A bubble of no

Others

In elevations / in Evian flights

Above the trees

We breathe all manner of breath

Above the blunted trees

We hover high

Earth

Diminished minusculed into

The Truths

Our Universe

Above the blues and green

Where only the starlight breathe

I wonder what vast oceans

Or most void a wilderness

Those sprinkles of effulgent dust

Must endure

Beyond time inconceivable

The fathoms of infiniteness...

What dreams will swim

Beyond this breath oh

We birds of a feather.

(Wandering together.)

THE RIVER THAT...ISN'T

pestered by heat shimmers
the mountain shifts a flank
then...lies down again

"Look...the river
is gone
the river has run away!"

"Rivers..." you say
"...can't just take up their beds
& walk!"

"Maybe..." you say
the river is just
on holiday?"

the river
somehow missing
its essential ingredient

"It's a river..." you say
". . .that
isn't. . !"

the dry riverbed
ran alongside the car
"Water...water!" it seemed to beg

feeling sorry for it
we threw an Evian overboard
the riverbed lapped it up greedily

"just
a billion more bottles
to go!"

we left the riverbed
behind us
panting in the sun

the river had jumped
into our camera
to get out of the sun

the riverbed
now lives in a photograph
in our bathroom

everytime we flushed the loo
or ran a bath
the photograph seems to smile

Slowly, Slowly
Holly Holy Dream
Jokic on the break
ChiTown on my team

Frederick, Maryland
At times the silent Scream
Refried bean burritos
Things Not only as they seem

             Evian skin cream

Slowly, Slowly
Holly Holy Dream
Jokic on the break
ChiTown on my team

Frederick, Maryland
At times the silent Scream
Refried bean burritos
Things Not only as they seem

             Evian skin cream

THE RIVER THAT...ISN'T

pestered by heat shimmers
the mountain shifts a flank
then...lies down again

"Look...the river
is gone
the river has run away!"

"Rivers..." you say
"...can't just take up their beds
& walk!"

"Maybe..." you say
the river is just
on holiday?"

the river
somehow missing
its essential ingredient

"It's a river..." you say
". . .that
isn't. . !"

the dry riverbed
ran alongside the car
"Water...water!" it seemed to beg

feeling sorry for it
we spilled an Evian overboard
the riverbed lapped it up greedily

"just
a billion more bottles
to go!"

we left the riverbed
behind us
panting in the sun

the river had jumped
into our camera
to get out of the sun

the riverbed
now lives in a photograph
in our bathroom

everytime we flushed the loo
or ran a bath
the photograph seems to smile