Had we but world enough, and time,
Every dish would be made of thine!
We would sit down and think which way
To cook alla Burra every day;
Thou by the flaming gas ring’s side
Shouldst gnocci find; I by the side
Of jamon iberico would not complain. You were
Lord of Linguini ten years before the Flood;
And we should, if it pleases You
Actually try to convert some Jews.
My vegetable sauce love should grow
Vaster than braising, and more slow.
An hundred years should go to praise
Bucatelli, and on thy noodly appendages gaze;
Two hundred to adore you scattered with lemon zest,
But thirty thousand to the rest;
An age at least to every part,
And the last age should show your heart.
For, FSM you deserve this state,
Nor would I cook at lower rate.
But at my back I always hear
the I D idiocracy hurrying near;
And yonder all before us lie
Deserts of pasta-less Eternity.
Thy parmesan shall no more be found,
Nor, in thy kitchen pantry, shall sound
My echoing song; then worms shall try
That long preserv'd tomato sauce ,
And your Noodly honour turn to dust,
And into ashes all my trust.
The Kansas School Board’s a fine and private place,
But none I think do there, You, embrace.
Now therefore, while the youthful hue
Sits on thy skin like fresh ragu,
And while my willing SOLE transpires
At every pore with instant ramen,
Now let us sport us while we may;
And now, like Pastafarian at play,
Rather at once your Ziti devour,
Than languish in the slow-cooker’s power.
Let us roll all our ravioli, and all
Our Putanesca, up into one bowl;
And tear our pleasures with rough strife
Through the hand-cranked pasta maker of life.
Thus, though we cannot make authentic Cabonara
Stand still, yet we will make Alla Matriciana
(Apologies to Andrew Marvell)
Give us this day our daily taste. Restore to us soups that spoons will not sink in and sauces which are never the same twice. Raise up among us stews with more gravy than we have bread to blot it with Give us pasta with a hundred fillings.
Robert Farrar Capon