Wild
Moroccan-Roasted Lamb
This was by-far the most aromatic dish I’ve cooked from this cookbook. The olive oil and cardamom fused with the tender meat, and as the sizzling began, the kitchen air filled with mouthwatering, earthy compounds. Everything soaked up the hearty tones of the lamb—the potatoes, the carrots, the onions, and our glasses for drinking.
What stuck out to me the most from this meal was not the prepping, the cooking, or even the eating. It was a small comment my husband made as we were clearing dishes and I asked him what he thought about the lamb. He said, “It tasted wild.” That comment stayed with me through the night and as the week went on. I let it melt on my tongue and simmer for a bit. Here’s what came of the cooking:
*Disclaimer: If being reminded that meat was once a part of a live animal grosses you out, perhaps refrain from reading :)
Wild
Wild.
The meat was wild
as I pressed it to my lips.
Bones and marrow running
running across ragged pigment
running wild.
When it seared in the pan,
hot and aching,
I could smell the pasture
and its hunger to go beyond.
I could detect the rebellion
of ninety-nine plus one
wild little lambs.
Wild. And dead.
Living veins with death
swelling wild.
Did it hurt
when I massaged spice
into its skin?
Did the course black pepper
scrape pain into flesh
as I pressed?
I pressed sharp spice
into dead lamb.
I covered it with salt
and my throat dried.
I begged for flavor—
for salt to bring seasoning.
But instead,
when I finally took a bite,
it only elucidated the wild.
This meat, it’s wild.
I taste and for a moment
delight.
I taste again
and the pleasure is gone.
I taste my own flesh
flesh gone wild
wild with rebellion.
I eat and I remember
the passover lamb—
A sacrifice of pure blood
to cover my wildness.
The fragrance in this profane kitchen—
It sticks to my skin
and my hair
and my clothes.
I smell and I remember;
I feast and I repent.
And I thank the Shepherd
who came as a Lamb
who died,
who I painfully killed,
and became wild death
So that I and the ninety-nine
might live.
I hunger and I create.
I walk and I work.
My blood pumps and I live
human—
Terribly, humbly human.
While all the while
up above me
(and even within
my own heart of flesh)
Heavenly company
dance for the Lamb
turned Lion.
The Lion
Wild
and lovely.