The Cook's Lament
Copyright 2007 by Jeff Suzuki
Like Master of the Field, this song ended up very different from what I started with, and for much the same reasons. The first line struck me on my way back from a bardic event near Albany on October 13, 2007, and over the next few days I added some lines until I got as far as:
Alas, my loaves you have done me wrong To fall so flat on my oven floor The chicken's raw though it's cooked so long And the king's just walked in through the door. The subtlety looks just like a brick The spitted roast has never been turned The lemon water is much too thick And somehow the salad's been burned.
At this point, I realized that the song was too depressing: anyone who's had things go wrong at a feast might laugh about it later, but they might resent being satirized. Too, it's difficult to make it clear that “Things happen” and that the kitchen disaster was not the fault of the head cook. (Jeff's pet SCA peeve: replacing perfectly good period terms, like head cook, gatekeeper, car, and children with SCA inventions like feast-o-crat, troll, dragon, and smalls.)
The fundamental rule of comedy is that the more powerful someone is, the funnier it is when bad things happen to them. When Joe Ditchdigger loses his job, his wife, his dog, and his hat, it's a tragedy. When it happens to Frank Moneybags, it's funny. In the same vein, having a feast go bad is a tragedy, since it's happening to someone in the lower half of society. Yes, in the SCA, the head cook may be a multipeer, but their job puts them in the servant's role. On the other hand, the person they're cooking for is (by default) a master, and satirizing them is funny.
So what's funny about food? For me, it's the conflict between the people who see food as something to enjoy and food as fuel. I take a perverse pride in the fact that our kids have been trained to eat well. I don't just mean healthy; I mean they eat things that many adults won't touch. By the age of 3, they've tried, enjoyed, and at times demanded eggplant, tofu, miso soup, seaweed, lychee, persimmons, and dragon fruit, and (to our dismay) have picked up a taste for eel, lox, shrimp, lobster, and crab; not to mention gruyere, muenster, feta, and smoked gouda. Sure, they eat mac and cheese, PBJs, and chicken nuggets...but they don't have to.
So imagine, if you will, a master cook in a household with a master of limited appetite...the tune is Greensleeves. I've warned others about explaining jokes, but if you're the singer, you should at least know what the punchlines are, so they're footnoted. I finished the bulk of the song on October 18, 2007, though there may be some fiddling with a verse or two later.
Alas, my lord, you do me wrong To treat this food discourteously For I have labored for so long To bring out this repast to thee. Chorus Green leaves are all my joy Cloves and nutmeg are my delight Saffron is more rare than gold And who can turn down marzipan? I've made thee quince tart and almond rice And braised the venison in port wine The date-stuffed goose would a monk entice In spite of his vows most divine. Chorus You'd rather gulp down a fried up lump Of ground and mixed nameless bits of steer And onions boiled 'til they form a clump. Washed down with the flour grinder's beer. Chorus You'll only eat meat that's bloody red Or fat fried cutlets from birds that cluck. You think that salads are for your head, And won't try lamb, rabbit, or duck. Chorus It's orange cheese or plain white for you Cut nicely down into little cubes Or melted up in a smooth fondue And poured onto cooked pasta tubes. ChorusLack tongue, I bid thee farewell, adieu! God grant some day you will learn good taste Til then, I'll tend to my pot-au-feu And vol-au-vents won't go to waste! Chorus
The footnotes
Yes, I know that monks do not in general foreswear flesh. I tried variations, but couldn't fit Lenten or Minimite (an order that does avoid meat) into the scansion.
Boiled can also mean fried (especially among the British), so this is a hamburger with onion rings.
A flour grinder is a miller. Personally, I've never had the flour grinder's beer: life's too short to drink domestic...
Unless my memory is going worse than I thought...what was I saying? Oh yeah: a sallet is a type of helmet.
Cheese sauce poured over pasta tubes? Think about it...
The original ending was:
Lack taste, I bid thee au revoir, farewell God grant some day you will learn to eat Til then, I'll sit in this kitchen hell And feed those who can stand the heat.
After I posted it to the SCA Bards list, Kazi Brion suggested that the sentiment was inconsistent with the original; oddly enough, she suggested it might be more appropriate for a song about cooking disasters! After thinking about it, I realized she was right, and changed the ending.
