Ode to Salad Cream by Trilety
He promised me lettuce crisp with crunch but gave me limp leaves instead.
So I turned my tongue away from the steel reach of his fork only to be teased by the viscous glug of a squeeze of salad cream.
Oh Salad Cream, how you drench the pink muscle of my mouth in savory fatness until I am - from knee to cheek - bedspread.
Your egg yolk sunrise erupts in my mouth and the only sound in the kitchen is my ecstatic scream.
Oh Salad Cream, you are beyond the sauce and better than the dressing.
Don’t let anyone tell you that you are unworthy or, worse, unknown, because my tongue and throat sing your praises with every slurp.
Only the Brits could blend up an emulsified sun and stuff it deep into a million wanting bottles for all the world to coat their salads, sandwiches and fingers in.
You are my lubricant for caressing. He lays me down on a bed of greens and watches as I gulp and swig you, Salad Cream, until I burst with a burp.
My world exploded with your silky drip and all I wanted was a threesome with you, me and Aristotle.