I haven’t “blogged” for some time, mostly because I’m not sure how to blog anymore. I think you just post stuff, but it’s longer than a tweet? I’m going to take a swing at it by posting this nearly two-century old poem about the Eastern European hunter’s stew Bigos:
Bigos is no ordinary dish,
For it is aptly framed to meet your wish.
Founded upon good cabbage, sliced and sour,
Which, as men say, by its own zest and power
Melts in one’s mouth, it settles in a pot
And its dewy bosom folds a lot
Of the best portions of selected meats;
Scullions parboil it then, until heat
Draws from its substance all the living juices,
And from the pot’s edge, boiling fluid sluices
And all the air is fragrant with its scent.
From the “Polish national epic,” Pan Tadeusz, 1834