by Ros Ayres
These words are ingredients at my fingertips,
collections of memories that map every dish.
Stimulating my senses, transporting me back,
I can almost taste it.
The kitchen table laid for dinner,
today’s dessert, an upside down pineapple cake.
The sponge glistens with glacé cherries, like
jewels they nestle inside pineapple rings.
A slice of Wall’s Viennetta, a Friday treat,
that fizz of excitement as I sliced my spoon into
the vanilla ice cream, slivers of chocolate
cracked and splintered.
Breathing in warm, sweet aromas of fresh
baking. a treacle tart, that golden lattice lid.
The satisfying sound of shortcrust pastry
as you cut each slice.
My spoon poised over a bowl of steaming
apple crumble, looking buoyant in Bird’s custard.
By now I’d learnt that speed secured seconds,
it was swiftly devoured.
Sneakily breaking off edges of crisp batter
from the tray of toad in the hole. Taking the time
to pour onion gravy until it reached
a precarious point on my plate.
Feeling the anticipation of the break, that first tap,
tap of a teaspoon against my Sunday boiled egg.
Cracked, open and bright-eyed. I was ready,
armed with a line of buttered soldiers.