Mum's Cooking Poem by Robert Melliard

In autumn we picked blackberries
and mum made jelly.

The sweet, rich smell
would fill our home for days.

The blackberries, once cooked,
were hung in a muslin bag
to catch the pips,
while their remaining essence
dripped gently
into a waiting bowl.

That pure result, conserved,
was later spread on buttered toast,
and made long winters shorter.

On Sundays, lunch was called dinner
because it was big and special.

Mum would roast lamb, beef or pork
and each would be served
with its long-accustomed sauce
(mint, horseradish or apple) ,
three fresh vegetables,
and thick, delicious gravy
which held the juices of the joint.

Mum spent Sunday mornings cooking.
She spent Saturday mornings shopping,
and those bags must have been heavy.

She was never paid overtime
for weekend work. In fact,
she was never paid at all.

Quite recently, nostalgic,
I tried to imitate her roasts
(even Yorkshire pudding with the beef)
for foreign friends who think
that English food is poor.

It wasn't easy.

You have to time the meat,
and the Yorkshire pudding,
and the veg and the gravy
so that every thing's hot
when it's finally served
(and mum couldn't cheat
by reheating things
in a microwave oven) .

You have to know how long
your joint will take to cook,
depending on its weight
and on the temperature you use.

So (now) I understand
why she'd call us out of the garden
annoyingly, at one o'clock sharp,
and was angry if we lingered.

Mum never went to university,
but she knew what she knew well.

I haven't mentioned sweets:
the home-made apple pies,
mince pies,
or lemon-meringue.

And I haven't mentioned teas
with little sandwiches
(the crusts cut off) ,
scones with jam and cream,
her chocolate cake,
or Scottish pancakes.

Except for the bread,
it was all home-made.

As an adult, I told her (once)
I had never eaten better
than when I was a child
(by then I'd lived in France and Spain,
and been to Italy) :
she was amazed,
because I'd never praised her
in my younger years...

On weekdays, she provided curry
(semi-British by adoption)
toad-in-the-hole, kedgeree,
grilled sausages with mashed potato
(not from a packet) ,
bubble-and-squeak,
steak and kidney pie,
shepherd's pie, fish pie
(both topped with mashed potato,
crispy from the oven)
macaroni with cheese and bacon,
grilled fish, tender steaks,
liver and onions,
brains, roes, or tongue,

For me, at least,
it was all heavenly,
(well, except for the mushy brains
and the squidgy tongue) .

I realize (now) that my dad
had to pay for all that.
He was an accountant
and worked in London
more than was good for him:
he died relatively young.

I realize (now) that I was privileged,
compared to so many others.

But when foreign friends tell me
(as they do)
that English food is bad,
I simply laugh, and think
they were probably in London,
and ate hamburgers, hot-dogs,
pizzas or kebabs,
because English food is slow,
painstaking, labour-intensive
(therefore unprofitable) ,
hard to locate,
and too expensive.

A few found a decent 'carvery'
and were pleasantly surprised...

I haven't even touched on Christmas
and the golden, basted turkey
with its chestnut stuffing,
sage-and-onion stuffing,
sausage-meat stuffing,
strips of crispy bacon,
chipolattas,
fresh vegetables,
roast potatoes,
gravy, bread sauce,
cranberry sauce
(the only thing from a jar)
then Christmas pudding -
flambéed with brandy,
topped with a sprig of holly
and served with brandy-butter
and whipped cream.

Forty years on,
I still have high cholesterol.

Women don't have time these days
(nor stressed-out men)
to roast and bake for long:
both work away from home.

But at least my memory
will hold some bygone flavours
for a while....

And this poem - for how long?
Who knows? The internet
may not be as ephemeral
as poets fear...

FINAL NOTE: You can say whatever you like about British food in general in your comments as long as you admit that my mother's cooking was clearly the best in the world...