Fricassé Ô!

 Fricassé what? What did chicken Fricassé mean for so long, for all that time that I did not know its self. Have I had it, friends? Had I, in fact, been eating this delicacy the taste of which spans over the continent, if not the globe. Where was it introduced? Can you make it without sweet mushrooms? Mushrooms are scarce in my Cypriot locality. Now they are these luxury agricultural products that you aspire for. You think about them, when you don’t have them, and sometimes you can’t have them. You think about them like you think about your Chicken Fricassé. 

She had a deep textured novel looking, music tasting flavour wrapped around her. She knew how to progress with it. She pushed it down and moved it up and made it dance like a snake; her sauce. The sauce made her have what she needed, what we are all seeking: the profundity of experience in taste. Fricassé denied the invitation to go on a stroll with her friends, her friends who were more burdened by the norms of the convention than she was. The crowd of chicken thighs who always stayed together, never to break their bonds. Fricassé knew that not getting any movement harmed the bodies of their friends more than they cared to confess. She didn’t want to be one.

Fricassé came over to my kitchen. She jumped into the non-carcinogenic stir fry pan and she started to sing. The song of hers which made you happy and sad at the same time. Happy because she was here to help you out, to get stronger and healthier. Sad because she would have deserved a bit more movement despite the food policies. She knew that healt augmentation would be maxed up had she had one more stroll before hitting the pan. Another time, Fricassé!