The boy sat at the kitchen table
Fingers all a-quiver
The Hama beads keep pinging off
Let's throw them in the river
Oh, the bad poetry. I just can't help myself.
Hey, when you are up half the night with a hurling child, intent on re-decorating the landing carpet, you're allowed a little artistic leeway. And the Hama beads? Well, you don't think I was letting him near any actual food do you? I figured ironing them together probably kills all known germs too.
Beetroot longing strikes
But then comes forced surrender
To the staining of hands
With apologies to any genuine Haiku writers. Anyone care to join me in a round of kitchen poetry this week? Pictures. Words.From your kitchen. Go on. If I promise not to write any more actual poetry?
When I followed the recipe for West Country Apple Dappy, (which I highly recommend you try, perhaps with some cinnamon too), I misread the title. Consequently, throughout the cooking and eating of it, a little refrain was repeating in my head.
And I can't think of a better refrain to end my week of kitchen poetry.
It's been such fun. Hope you find much joy in your kitchens this weekend.
Sunshine of the artificial variety here today. Because the real thing seems to be in short supply.
A humble thing, the breadcrumb. But I was stopped in my tracks this morning by how delicious they smelled when I opened up the processor.
When we eat the meatloaf tonight, nobody but me will even know that there are breadcrumbs in it. My secret subversive pleasure. Like wearing clashing orange socks under my boots. Yours?
The end product is seldom realized without a good deal of behind the scenes work. This fact has taken me a long long time to grasp. Effortless glamour is an oxymoron.
So it is only fitting that I kick off my week of kitchen poetry with the preparation stage.
Want to join in? Details over at Simplesparrow.
