Before Dinner
The spice rack on the wall.
The cook unlocks, doors open
Releasing the fragrance of distant lands.
Cinnamon and cloves, nutmeg and allspice.
Around the table, kitchen maids,
Tendrils of damp hair escaping from their caps
Chop apples, candied peel.
‘Look sharp, we haven’t got all day,’ the cook admonishes,
‘Twenty-two sit down, it’s a la Russe
So all must be set on time.
And see you grate the suet properly, they don’t want lumps of fat.’
Plump raisins from Valencia are stoned
Currants rolled in flour and eggs are whisked.
‘See that the water’s boiling, boy, make haste.’
The basin fills.
Freshly ground spice perfumes the steam filled air.
Brandy.
A nip before the bottles locked away.
The cook’s prerogative.
At last, onto a well-floured cloth the mixture goes,
Securely tied.
Five hours it takes to boil,
And then becomes a speckled ball.
The centre piece.
And in the scullery,
A stolen raisin in her apron pocket
The skivvy thinks of foreign lands,
And dreams, her hands deep in the sink,
That one day she could become a parlour Maid.
By Angela Lanyon
A writer, poet, playwright and former theatre manager.
Also, a mother, grandmother and great grandmother.
Shortly to self publish RANDOM RHYMES, a book of light verse.
I suppose at 93 the fact that one is compos mentos is an achievement.