Patty Seyburn

I butterflied Australian rack of lamb with shallots, garlic, parsley, butter, wine (some in the pan, some for the palate). Although the livestock loved in nursery rhyme avoided clumps of mint, it served my family nonetheless. I am no PETA zealot (leather jacket, handbag, wallet, shoes) but wonder if the deeds we do pursue us in the afterlife. Does the fleecy creature have a tenderable claim? My lambent mind considers our short lease on life, the oven hot. Am I to blame? Who gave thee such a tender voice? asked Blake. Myself am Hell. I watch the mutton bake.

So when you go wherever it is you will go take the moon with you and make it wear that democratic white shroud, pocketless, since rich and poor, we take nothing with us, save a small stick or dowel in the casket, so we can all burrow through the earth to the Holy Land when the time is right. Please forgive that I confessed your amusement at Shakespeare’s “mewling and puking” in my eulogy.