Commissioned to write a book on traditional cooking
Returning home very late one night I stop at the bakers to
Pick up a loaf of bread. The familiar octogenarian
struggling with the shutter halts, gets in again to
put the last loaf on the bench, taking eternity to slice,
chats me up with his usual how’s the book coming,
had reserved the loaf just for me, must take care of health.
I thank him for his life saving loaf and
further compliment on it’s excellent taste.
Says he was thrown out of a British Colonels’ house
for not learning to bake properly and ridiculed by family
for cooking for his sick wife who died, sixty years ago,
laughs when I say it can’t get any more traditional than this.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.