I’m proud of my Polish heritage, and all that it includes,
for as all ethnic celebrations, it all reverts to foods.
for someone quite obsessed with food, they are almost deemed erotic.
The Christmas time Wigilia, a meatless feast celebration,
puts me in a festive mood and fills me with elation.
all serve to wet my appetite (I’d even eat them soggy)
The Easter time Swenczonka, for all the epicurious,
involves a different taste for sure, they never make me furious.
veal, and cross bread; horseradish, and sculpted butter lambs.
But not all Polish delectable’s suit my heart, I find,
there is a bit that just won’t fit, it makes me lose my mind.
that made my stomach wretch and hurl, though my grandfather’s favorite wish.
A soup they called czarnina, a ruddy, bloody brew
fashioned out of duck’s blood, a taste that I would rue.
but the six of us just hated it; this sweet and sour brine.
My mother called it “chocolate soup” since that was how it looked,
but every time she’d serve it the sibling nearly puked.
and Mom’d resort to force feeding the nasty stuff for supper.
Don’t put in on the menu! Don’t force feed your food “agenda”!
But in her eyes czarnina was a real deal ender.
but Mom and Dad and Grandfather were the ones that wore the crown.
“You don’t know what is good for you, so we’ll make that decision!”
And every time the soup was dished, it prompted our derision.
the pushing of the “chocolate soup”; this nasty goop from hell.
I’ve hated it for all these years, I never try to eat it,
my parents always won the war, but this issue was defeated.
it’s put a fear within me, it’s really just a waste.
I pray one day somebody, could reverse czarnina’s harm,
not everyone needs “chocolate soup”, it doesn’t hold a charm.
it’s prompted nasty memories, I think it missed the boat.
After eighty-five years, my grandfather passed, Czarnina finally got him,
I blame the horrid mixture for the times I’ve hit rock bottom.
seems history repeats itself, and will till end of days.