The Republican

The man, they said he was insane,
Threw himself into the Seine
Lamenting the horrors he could not undo
And the punishments that were undue.

All his life he'd been a whipping-post
For the cause of liberty
His head, it filled with cracking sounds--
The whip of oppression
The snapping of the corners of the flag
The cannons, whose power grew, and
The canons, now obsolete

He had married, merry, once--
A patriot named Egalitte
(And wasn't that fitting?)
But for the love of the tricolor's thick red stripe,
He lost his own.

Never again stood he idly by
All the fighting he internalized
Through the beatless hearts of slain tyrants
Egalitte he immortalized.

He was old, now,
Egalitte still so young
Awaited him in heaven--or hell--
The single picture he had of her
Green leaves tucked in her hair
Mocked his cowardly life
From yellow sunrise to yellow set.

"Allons, enfants de la patrie"
Her lusty voice filled his chest
The weight of the song
Extended the wait 'til the day he'd take
His life
His rest
His breath
His death
His end

The Seine swirled.
The wind whirled.
His heaves hurled over the bridge's edge.
His sobs stabbed the light of day.

Egalitte broke the river's surface first
Green leaves softened
His body followed heavily
One more Revolution's casualty.

A Little Taste of Heaven (also known as France)

As the soothing melodies of Iron and Wine lull me into some sort of calm, relaxed trance, I feel the need to write. The weekend's happenings have been few and uninteresting...Last night, I cooked. I shall call the dish I created something along the lines of Supreme de Vielle Poule which, when translated, does not sound delicious...but it was, I assure you. It is based off of a tiny little recipe in The Joy of Cooking.

-Butcher a five-pound roasting chicken.

-Sear the pieces in butter and add a quarter-cup of dry, buttery white wine.

-Take the chicken out of the pot. Add apples, celery, onions, chicken stock, 2 tablespoons of flour, paprika, and fresh parsley to taste. Boil until apples are tender.

-Put the chicken back in the pot. Simmer for an hour.

-Remove the chicken from the pot. Strain the sauce, keeping the strained gravy part, not the chunks. Mix 1/3 cup of sour cream with the sauce over a double boiler. Add dry tarragon.

-Put the sauce and the chicken in a casserole pan. Cover the chicken with shredded Parmesan.
-Broil until the cheese is brownish.

Ta-Dah! Enjoy! Feel French all evening and impress your guests. They will be asking you "what IS that taste? It's so fresh. Is that mint? Cinnamon? Maybe...tarragon?" You will smile and nod and feel very, very accomplished. This is even better if someone watches you cook the dish, as it is just complicated enough to make you look like you know what you're doing.

"Sweet and matchless Josephine, how strangely you work upon my heart"

I am generally not a sucker for a love story. See “Romance” under “Things Everyone But Me Likes”. Yet, I am and always have been captivated by the story of Napoleon and Josephine. The basic plotline is as follows, played out in a serious of passionate letters:

Napoleon Bonaparte, a young Revolutionary soldier, meets the unbelievably beautiful Josephine Beauharnhais, a widowed socialite and mother of two.

He courts her, eventually obtaining her hand in marriage.

Napoleon goes off to war. Josephine is home, lonely and bored. She takes on many lovers, and eventually Napoleon finds out.

He is heartbroken and angry and feels he must ask for a divorce, though he loves her still. Josephine convinces him otherwise. He never lets her live down her infidelity, but they move past this obstacle.

Napoleon is crowned Emperor, and in a touching ceremony, bestows the title Empress on Josephine.

They seem to be unable to conceive a child, a problem Napoleon blames on himself. The pressure increases for him to bear an heir.

One of Napoleon’s mistresses (he is the cheater now, still making up for Josephine’s adultery) has a baby by him, which he cannot claim legally. He then realizes he is able to conceive children after all and begins blaming the problem on Josephine.

He divorces Josephine and marries 18-year-old Marie Louise of Austria. Napoleon and Marie Louise conceive a son, Napoleon’s heir.

Napoleon is exiled to Elba. He and Josephine continue to write letters as they always had. She asks to be permitted to join him in Elba in the last letter she ever writes, dying before she receives his reply.

When Napoleon escapes and returns to Paris, the first thing he does is ask Josephine’s doctor what happened to her. The doctor tells him she died of a broken heart.

Napoleon dies. His last words are rumored to have been “France, the army, Josephine”.