Not wanting to be left out and having no creativity I will slip in
a poem from two years ago.
Recipe
`Did you have a nanny?', asked Fiona.
`No, my mother nursed me', I answered.
`That's where it comes from', she said.
`I don't think I could take that', I replied.
My mother was a marvellous Scottish farmhouse cook.
Her lentil soup, a tureen she renewed every week or two,
Has entered my soul. Take a ham bone and build on it.
She cooked bacon and eggs on a slow gas flame to perfection.
And fried pancakes.
Her rock buns and biscuits are of the memory.
And when it came to roasts she was laughing.
Brussel sprouts and cauliflower.
She could make trifle like nothing on earth.
And her tablet was unparalleled.
Rabbit stew was like chicken. But better.
Rhubarb pie and custard.
Lemon meringue.
Strawberries and cream.
I have lived a life of sweet dreams and nervous breakdowns.
Douglas Clark, Bath, England mailto: [log in to unmask]
Lynx: Poetry from Bath .......... http://www.bath.ac.uk/~exxdgdc/lynx.html
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