Salt Talks

Flavour gone from food when salt is missing,

Famine, feast or fast, it’s all the same,

Every morsel merely for nutrition,

Tasteless platters, menu’s not to blame.

Appetising entrees through to crackers,

Each and every course that looks a sight,

None appeal, untested, quite unwilling,

No temptation for a single bite.

Tasted years ago and though they looked fine,

Appealing on the card and on the plate,

Every bite partaken minus salt mine,

Nothing short of tasteless, ain’t that great,

Fancy restaurants and all those chefs there

Offering hors d’oeuvres and the rest,

Couldn’t tempt, not even little nibble,

Salted tried and salted tasted best.

Salted slightly, not to overdosing,

Just right, she said, when trying three bowls full,

Rejected others, liked her porridge full and fulsome,

Who requests or likes diluted gruel.

Flavour gone from food when salt is absent,

A dose or two, my appetite is grand,

I carry salt, for luck, across my shoulder

And for taste because, without it, life is bland.

Unexpected

Sneak away to cotton wool of quiet

Where verbiage is visual, thickened slurp

Upon a screen, (or paper’s always preferable),

It’s stealing time between each gulp and blurt,

Like weaning from the waifs that all are gathered,

No kidding, it’s like twisting with the crew that Ollie kept

(before he joined the rogues and Fagin’s chorus)

And held his plate for seconds (though unmet). 

I figure at this rate that I’ll be plastered,

(with drink or effort or the two combined),

It’s early days for falling on the flooring

(but as long as fridge is full, they’ll step over, they won’t mind).

I wonder where they put it all, these grubbers,

(like orphaned foragers who’ve starved till I stepped in)

I really should be charging for this workhouse

(or at least for all the hangers-on they bring).

But, bugger it, they’re young and I’m an old fart,

(Moaning for the fun of moaning’s sake),

We do that you know, (while pushing zimmers),

It’s called prerogative (or some such take). 

I really can’t complain, (they made the dinner,

But buggered up the menus I had planned),

See it, want it, eat it, (no questions),

It was delicious with the French bread (full of garlic, heavy hand).

It’s gone quiet now, (they’re off to their own rooms)

(At least, I think that’s where they’ve sneakily disappeared),

I’ve been excused for good behaviour (by hubby,

who’s now got his feet up in a chair)

Though very soon it’s pick-up for another,

He’s on that (cause I had Cabernet, a lovely wine)

Daughter back with cat, (no longer tiny kitten),

Poor dug will have a seizure (or maybe fine).

It’s the unexpected nature of the season

(Well, it feckin’ is, if you live here!)

Beds unrolled, (some couches unfold)

And counting heads, (maintaining all good cheer, sic).


Did you know that some wines are labelled 14%! (I didn’t.)

Swear to god and all his wee buddhas and helpers

(no offence to all wee buddhas and helpers)

I am such a light weight at times.

Two glasses is what I call a cheap date.

I blame all the work.

And then suddenly stopping.

Confuses the body.

And the mind. (Spirit still intact).

It’s not really Christmas Eve tomorrow,

is it?

I’ll probably do my damndest to escape to wordville over the season ( I call it maintaining sanity) but if I don’t (or even if I do) I hope you all have a lovely Christmas, Happy Holidays, Seasonal Fest.

Thank you all for reading over the year and all the lovely comments. It’s still such a pleasure to glimpse all your worlds. May the New Year be good to you. And all your dreams be blessed.

Anne-Marie x

On The Menu

Roses breathed to bosom, dusky evening,

Linen tablecoth, choice silverware,

Damask dress, trimmed velvet, black as midnight,

Mackintosh to Mackintosh high chairs.

Crystal leaded, claret perfumed, goblets,

Damson, berried, succulence so full,

Lips to edges, tongues explore, exploding,

Morsels delectating, savoured pull.

Salmon, oaken-smoked, slivers sweating,

Recline invitingly on cress with dressing bare,

Venison richly waiting for the sizzle,

Sides to touch, mere moments, serving rare.

Scattered cushioned silk upon the hearthrug,

Embers banked, maintaining just degree,

Freesia perfumed water by the fireside,

Elevating moisture tremulously.

Sparkling eyes aglow, pearlies nibbling

Cream on chill in earthenware to pour,

Forested kirsch and cherry brandy, 

Coffee bubbling, ambient the air.

Lazy ease, recumbent postures, idling,

Somnabulent with sleep, determined smiles,

Comforted, sense comforted, piled hearthrug,

Rarest sensories for miles and wiles.

Brussel Sprouts

Why does everyone hate Brussel sprouts?

I was a good little girl. When I was told to eat up my vegetables, I ate up my vegetables. And I don’t think there is one that I don’t like. I acquired a taste for them all, you might say.

Unfortunately, no one in this house, apart from me, likes Brussel sprouts so it’s almost pointless having them at meal times.

But I am bloody well having them on Christmas Day no matter what the rest of them want.

Just thinking out menus.

And beginning my online shopping. Whee! Christmas is coming. Now I’m in the mood! 🙂