The sea’s a glutton.
Just look how it’s swallowed whole
Miss Van Osburgh was a large girl with flat surfaces and no high lights: Jack Stepney had once said of her that she was as reliable as roast mutton. His own taste was in the line of less solid and more highly-seasoned diet; but hunger makes any fare palatable, and there had been times when Mr. Stepney had been reduced to a crust.
Lily considered with interest the expression of their faces: the girl’s turned toward her companion’s like an empty plate held up to be filled, while the man lounging at her side already betrayed the encroaching boredom which would presently crack the thin veneer of his smile. Wharton, The House of Mirth
It’s a very odd thing –
As odd as can be –
That whatever Miss T. eats
Turns into Miss T.;
Porridge and apples,
Mince, muffins and mutton,
Jam, junket, jumbles –
Not a rap, not a button
It matters; the moment
They’re out of her plate,
Though shared by Miss Butcher
And sour Mr. Bate;
Tiny and cheerful,
And neat as can be,
Whatever Miss T. eats
Turns into Miss T.
– Walter de la Mare
Another volcanickal Emission, whilst he grimly attacks his slice of the evening’s mutton in Tail-fat.
“Mutton Stew this evening, I’m told,” Dixon cries in a cheery Salute. The Girl shrieks, and runs off into the Kitchen.
[ … ] After the Cape custom, the Dutchman has lock’d his front door for the evening meal, which he now regards, smoldering, less predictable than an Italian Volcano.
“I see you have discovered another Cape delicacy, Mr. Dixon,” Johanna in an effort not to get into any verbal exchange with Mason, whilst her husband is in the room, “— our Malays call it ketjap.”
“Girls, don’t even want you looking at it. Filthy Asian stuff,”Cornelius commands thro’ clouds of aromatic pipe-smoke. “Even” (puff) “if something has to be done” (puff) “to cover up the taste of this food.” Another volcanickal Emission, whilst he grimly attacks his slice of the evening’s mutton in Tail-fat. Over the course of its late owner’s life, the Tail has grown not merely larger and more fatty, but also, having absorbed years of ovine Flatulence ever blowing by, to exhibit a distinct Taste, perhaps priz’d by cognoscenti somewhere, though where cannot readily be imagin’d.
— Mason & Dixon
He said “I look for butterflies
That sleep among the wheat:
I make them into mutton-pies,
And sell them in the street.
I sell them unto men,” he said,
“Who sail on stormy seas;
And that’s the way I get my bread —
A trifle, if you please.”
from the vast corpulent volumes of immortality