Food and Drink

Small Pleasures

Heaven in the morning:

The smell of toast,

Especially with raisins. 

Heaven in the ev’ning:

The smell of scotch,

Especially with soda. 

About Toast

Honey is really too sticky.

Marmalade’s also quite tricky.

But on hot toast, without question, 

The spread (good too for ingestion)

That goes on just perfectly right

Is old tried and true Vegemite!

The Latin Touch     

Some Anglo dishes

Boast cheery names of

Roly-poly style, 

Like suet pudding

And plum duff; but the

Romans reign supreme 

With bomboloni! 

 

The Stages of Thrift

Use a teabag twice:

Smallish sacrifice.

Use a teabag thrice: 

Dire frugality. 

Use it more than three:

Confirms poverty.
 

The Latins Gazumped

The foody roly-poly crown,
That bomboloni lately snatched,
Has drawn pretenders of renown
Who seek to overthrow his throne. 

One is old friend macaroni, 
Another warming minestrone.
And stronger still the challenge posed
By toothsome zabaglione.

But these Roman claims, while worthy,   
Swiftly wilt when faced with thorny
Anglo-Indian champion,
Majestic mulligatawny!





Ode to a Fridge

If Donne could write a fine Ode to a Flea,
Why should not I, if centuries later
In a far more sanitary age, be
Allowed a slight verse in praise of a fridge?

The old one, ever noisy and cranky,
Had shelves that collapsed, and stuff that fell out, 
Shaky doors that at times failed to close, and
Required low stoops to secure frequent things.

The new fridge sings soporifically,
Is capacious, approachable, stable 
And deals subtly, correctly with ice-cream – 
Which alone makes it worthy of worship.

Life is transformed by it, harmony rules;
It beams down on us, a beacon of bliss
In a kitchen resonating with paeans
Of joy and loud professions of homage. 

John, irrepressibly affectionate
Of anything that pleasured his senses,
Would doubtless be as besotted as us
Had he savoured the charms of our new fridge. 

The Magic Potato

Whenever you need

An authentic fix

Of carbohydrate,

Partake of the spud.

The style may vary

From rough Celtic mash,

Elegant French fries,

To boiled baby news.

But the high you earn

Will ever surpass

Those tasty pastas

And subtle risottos. 

A Subtle Difference

Lena delights

To cook with wine;

And so do I.

She decants it 

Into the dish; 

I prefer to

pour it, instead,

Into the cook.

In Defence of Tripe

   

Oh, blessèd, blessèd tripe!

Not of the verbal type,

But that of classic note

    Which Homer fed to proud

Achilles, which brought on

Lewd Gargantua’s birth.

Alas, ’tis sad to say,

Respect has given way

In these less sturdy times 

To scorn and calumnies

That would deny dear tripe  

All virtue as a dish.

And so, especially,

Its true variety

(From bland, onionated 

Celtic to savoury,

Tomatoed Florentine)

Is perversely ignored.

But happily there are,

If scattered near and far, 

Some still faithful souls in

Whom tripe ever kindles 

A certain pleasure - though, 

True, their number dwindles. 

Food and Love

For so many women
(And not only mothers)
Preparing and serving  
Food to certain others 
Is a profound act, a 
Declaration of love. 

The Myst’ry of Whisky

Beer is for cheer, 

Champagne the same,

Brandy’s for randy,

Wine is fine; but

Of all this booze,

Whisky’s the one 

That best eases, 

Pleases the Muse.   

That report has 

Widespread support

From the many  

Who have sipped at 

This well of auld

Celtic magic 

While wrestling with 

Comic and tragic.

Of Fennel
2014 

Oh, thou stinking weed!
Though chefs praise thee and
Foodies consume thee 
With snobbish delight,
I do detest thee!

Once, for meagre pay,
I felled a jungle
Of thine ancestors, 
Head-high and reeking 
Like old urinals.

Such skin-clinging stench,
That unto this day 
Mere mention of thee  
Doth drench my nostrils
In thine vile odour!

 





















An Ode to Liver
2016
 
Oh, lovely luscious calf liver!
The merest mention of thee sets                                                                                  
All of my taste-buds a-quiver. 

Fine-slivered, with sweet onions fried,  
Thou art a dish fit for heroes,
Great kings, at the height of their pride.  

Sooth! Thou doth also deliver
(Specially if kosher in kind)
As hearty ferrous health-giver!  





 

Colcannon

2017

A name that sings of high endeavour,
Of proud kings and castles on tall crags,
Of battles fought and won with valour,
Of regiments and lordly green estates;

But, in truth, marks a humble Celtic
Dish (mashed-potato greens) that at least
Doth boast, as told in song, a joyous
Air that miserly slumgullion lacks!
 

Did you ever eat Colcannon, made from lovely pickled cream?
With the greens and scallions mingled like a picture in a dream.
Did you ever make a hole on top to hold the melting flake
Of the creamy, flavoured butter that your mother used to make?

Yes you did, so you did, so did he and so did I.
And the more I think about it sure the nearer I'm to cry.
Oh, wasn't it the happy days when troubles we had not,
And our mothers made Colcannon in the little skillet pot.