Culinary Visions in Ancient Poetry

You know, I thought it was just the game Candy Land, the song Big Rock Candy Mountain and Roald Dahl's story about Charlie and Willy Wonka that had visions of food making up the landscape. In all those cases it was chocolate and sweets. Recently, I was reading a book of ancient Irish poetry (translated by Kuno Meyer and published in 1911) however, where part of a story depicts the vision of Mac Conglinne where he's sailing in a coracle of lard and ports in New-milk Loch, the sea soil like honey, the outworks of custard, fences of butter, doors of dry meat, pillars of cheese and bacon...

Well, you can read it down below and read more about the complete poem and what it's about here.
From The Vision of Mac CongLinne:

A vision that appeared to me,
An apparition wonderful I tell to all:
A lardy coracle all of lard
Within a port of New-milk Loch,
Up on the world's smooth sea.We went into the man-of-war,
'Twas warrior-like to take the road
O'er ocean's heaving waves.
Our oar-strokes then we pulled
Across the level sea,
Throwing the sea's harvest up,
Like honey, the sea-soil.
The fort we reached was beautiful,
With outworks of custards thick,
Beyond the loch.
New butter was the bridge in front,
The rubble dyke was wheaten white,
Bacon the palisade.
Stately, pleasantly it sat,
A compact house and strong.
Then I went in:
The door of it was dry meat,
The threshold was bare bread,
Cheese-curds the sides.
Smooth pillars of old cheese,
And sappy bacon props
Alternate ranged;
Fine beams of mellow cream

White rafters-real curds,
Kept up the house.
Behind was a wine well,
Beer and bragget in streams,
Each full pool to the taste.
Malt in a smooth wavy sea,
Over a lard-spring's brinkFlowed through the floor.
A loch of pottage fat
Under a cream of oozy lard
Lay 'tween it and the sea.
Hedges of butter fenced it round,
Under a blossom of white-mantling lard

Around the wall outside.
A row of fragrant apple-trees,
An orchard in its pink-tipped bloom,
Between it and the hill.
A forest tall of real leeks,
Of onions and of carrots, stoodBehind the house.
Within, a household generous,
A welcome of red, firm-fed men,
Around the fire.
Seven bead-strings and necklets seven,
Of cheeses and of bits of tripe,
Hung from each neck.

The Chief in mantle of beefy fat
Beside his noble wife and fair
I then beheld.
Below the lofty cauldron's spit
Then the Dispenser I beheld,
His fleshfork on his back.The good Cathal Mac Finguine,
He is a good man to enjoy
Tales tall and fine.
That is a business for an hour,
And full of delight 'tis to tell
The rowing of the man-of-war
O'er Loch Milk's sea.