Poet/Cook

It's beastly out there today.
Happy blue skies have been solemnly replaced by grim grey, but we poets/cooks carry on.
Last night, after a pizza, I wrote the following poem, it nigh on suffocated me, that's the poem not the pizza...And yet as my fingers swept across the keyboard all I felt was relief. Relief at being able to write. Being able to effortlessly lay down words has always thrilled me. And I was thrilled last night.
I hope you like it.

Now to my other life as a cook.
I'm making a Roman Cobbler for dinner and for pud Scotch pancakes with ice cream and butterscotch sauce. Italy meets Scotland. Sounds like a footie match to me.


Venus.

We saw Venus
as the ancient sea kicked in fury
her blazing light incredible
as the waves came home to beach

I saw You
as a young man on the road
your blistering ideas abundant
as we rushed inside to sleep

I saw Venus
as we lay luxuriant, fertile
our schemes unfailing, impressive
as all good dreams should be

I saw Us
as the clock pinged 6
locked lovely in complex love knots
and we sat silent as the waves stood still.


Angela Norris

Do Not Eat

I've been perusing me cupboards and here is a list of what I do not have and why.

Tinned Rice Pudding:
It is anathema to me on account of it being too white and not containing bits of lemon peel.
Tinned Soup:
Because it is not soup as I know it. My soup needs a fork because sometimes it has a bits of cabbage in it. The thought of being tied down and having a spoonful of Heinz Tomato Soup dripped onto my lips keeps me awake at night.
Cook-In Sauces:
I bought one in 1985 and fainted when I opened the tin. I swore never again.
Canned Meat:
Because it reminds me of the War. Corned Beef is ok if one closes one's eyes and thinks of England. But canned Ham is unforgivable and full of water.
Instant Custard:
The country's supply of it should be chucked into a landfill site or poured over giggling women in baths who are doing it for charity and to get their picture in the paper. Do not use this product.
Tubed Garlic:
I must chop and mash my garlic otherwise I can't sing in Italian. I eat bucketloads of real garlic. I do not have any friends.
Cake Mixes:
If I see someone in Sainsbury's even LOOKING at these appalling things I tell the manager to evict them from the store. To make a cake is the best thing on earth. I don't trust people who buy Swiss Rolls.

And perhaps the foodstuff that makes me go most mental is

Cheap Sausages:
Pale insipid pinky winkies without any balls. When I see a bad sausage in Sainsbury's I spin round shouting obscenities, I cry out for the in-store butcher to be relocated and I weep for the wretched animal that had to be put to sleep just so people with no class or money can have a fry-up.
A real Woman's sausage is so powerful you have to kill it to eat it. A real sausage lives on your plate, it breathes and looks at you with contempt, it dares you to eat it.
I kill dozens of the blighters every month. And they love me for it. I float them in cider, I prop them up and against some mash, I slice them into a risotto and I squeeze them into a finger roll. And at all times the sausage in question is the best I can afford.
So on your knees you Cumberland Ring you, try and get the better of me you string of Toulouse, get me in a lather if you dare, you pound of big fat Venison bangers.
And melt me with your long lusciousness you violent Frankfurter.

I will at some time post a piece about what goes on in my kitchen.
And it's not all culinary.
Thank You.