Unnoticed

 

  

I’ve just become aware

it began with a dead cat,

you with your mind elsewhere,

choosing not to know

her fierceness and her fondness.

It ended with a stray cat

draped on your back steps.

Rain on what we’d built,

you asked for help, then pled,

all fierceness echoing.

Cardigan Island

Islet thrown up extempore,

strata layer-cake jiggly

and rainbowed,

we rowed out in a March hour,

rounded it sea-side to find

no landing there.

Wild life was allowed, throve.

We hadn’t come for that:

stone had pulled us

into the deeps of creation’s upping

and thrusting, molten layers

tipped over the hard.

We’re tamed, feel crusting, display,

safe as rock and houses:

what’s passed is unseen.

Memories: Eating Out in Post-War London

Though my Ma was a chef, we didn't eat out much in post-war London - didn't need to, really. Battersea had no restaurants in those days, anyway, just a few greasy-spoon caffs, the posher cafes in Arding and Hobbs and Battersea Park and the hole-in-the-corner near Battersea High Street open market, where, on winter marketing days, we were taken for a cup of steaming tea and a toasted, buttered bun.

There was/is still an Eel and Pie shop, again in Battersea High Street, whose pie and mash I was allowed to try once and disliked. She used to buy live eels there because my father liked them - cooked, of course; I didn't until decades later. Once, when I was about nine she asked me to pick up the eels from the shop while she did the rest of the market shopping, saying I was to stand outside the shop with the packet of eels and wait for her. The eels were chopped, live, into eatable lengths and wrapped in greaseproof, then brown paper. I picked it up and stood outside the shop, as told, with the package in my hands. Two minutes on and it started wriggling. I dropped it at my feet and stood there, too squeamish to pick it up! My mother and the stallholders close to burst out laughing as I told her what happened. I can remember being much miffed when she told me I'd never make a chef. Too right, there, Ma! 

When we did eat out, usually for birthday treats, she insisted that we explore world cuisines, such as they were in London in those days; the Swiss Edelweiss in Pimlico, Veeraswamy's off Regent Street, Good Friends in the Docklands, a particular French restaurant in Greek Street, Soho, opposite the wonderful bakery that's still going strong, The Gay Hussars just up the road, Blooms in the East End, the big, barnlike Schmidt's German restaurant in Charlotte Street, also Soho, whose food I didn't much like, Brusa's, the Italian restaurant in St Martin's Lane near Covent Garden, a Swiss vegetarian restaurant at the back of Duke Street, opposite Selfridges's, that made the best cheese omelette in London, etc. I can also remember eating at Rules - and Simpsons in the Strand where she had been the wartime sous chef. All of these would have been expensive for my family, but my mother saved from birthday to birthday so we could all enjoy dishes she didn't cook at home, but knew well. 

What it all did was set me up for exploring the 60's boom in London restaurants once I'd started college and left home. It also set me up as a collector of recipe books and as a cook of as many cuisines as I could explore. Some legacy, eh? 

Pastry Capers

 

I have me pastry, puff, some cheese,

an egg and pepper, Himself to please.

Ma’s Talmouses don’t take much time,

less than getting this list to rhyme.

After rolling the paste to squish it flat,

cut four inch circles, place on a mat,

no, on a tray, where they’ll flop and rest.

It’s feeble, I know, but I’m doing my best

to get this wretched verse to rhyme

and taking liberties takes time,

even if the rhyme repeats

as I fail to persist preparing these eats.

Now, I’ll behave, so back to the text.

Cheese and eggs and pepper are next.

The cheese is grated, mixed with the rest

till all adhere – in a bowl is best.

Yes, I know the rhyme repeats

and, no, I won’t be using ‘eats.’

It’s not as if I’m being lazy;

trying, maybe, certainly hazy.

Doing two things at the same time

(Bugger! But ‘slime’ is worse than ‘rhyme.’)

is hard if you’re unused to baking

and worse if naff at poetry making.

So, back to fillings. Dollop some mix

on the rounds of pastry. Now to fix

all of the edges. Take egg, then brush

a little around the cheese. Don’t rush.

You see I avoided the use of ‘time.’

Arrghh! Can’t escape the use of ‘rhyme’

‘cause ‘crime’ and ‘dime’ and ‘mime’ won’t fit

what this verse requires of it.

And ‘it’ is weak; it’s a nothing stress

to end a line. Trust me to mess

up poetic metre time out of number!

Writing’s a pressure to be humbler.

Right! Here’s the final fiddly part -

at the end, thank God, and not the start!

Take up three sides of the egged-edge paste,

a job that can’t be done in haste,

and match the sides, squeezing well

along the edges. So that they swell,  

leave a smallish hole at the top

through which, when baked, the mix will pop.
You’re making a three-cornered hat.

I wonder who first thought of that!

Note: no repeat rhymes here, so take

the tray, full as it is, and bake

for 15 minutes at 200C

(I’m dying here for want of tea)

till golden. Eat them warm, not hot

and make sure you don’t scoff the lot

all at one sitting. Take your time

Yes, I knew there’d be this rhyme.

I’m resigned to repetition.

It’s the same with baking: repetition

of Ma’s past recipes, most of them good,

as she was when focused on making food.

Time’s at an end, but a fond farewell?

Baking with making’s nowt but hell!

One and T’other

 

Reply to a friend daft enough to argue about Tolkien

 

Elves aren’t dwarves, our clever Nige.

You stated dwarves; stay with ‘em,

but if you can’t, then I’ll oblige,

offset your try at schism

in fairyland and in the halls

of Gloomendale, where dwarves of might

stay mini-men, where stately balls

are often danced throughout the night.

So, how to tell that dwarves aren’t elves?

There’s something you’re not seeing:

elves’ ears have points; they know themselves

           by such. A dwarf’s a different being.