An Ode (or at Least Sonnet) to Gilly, Durand’s Chef

The meals of halls long gone bring tears to mind,
One recipe to feed four hundred strong;
Long lines that loop’d like asps amid the throng.
The trays, the pots, the chefs, the food — maligned.

But now we have a Knight to cook cuisine,
With shining cutlery and tasty chives,
Ready to slay the serpent with her knives
And polytetrafluoroethylene.

Those pythons of our past, the meals abhorred,
Will fall like leaves before our Gilly’s sword.
She cooks; our faith in food again restored.

A silent paladin doth cook the dish
We eat each night, no more than we could wish.
And if she bleeds, a wound from battle: fish.