"hob" poems
hist whist
little ghostthings
tip-toe
twinkle-toe
little twitchy
witches and tingling
goblins
hob-a-nob hob-a-nob
little hoppy happy
toad in tweeds
tweeds
little itchy mousies
with scuttling
eyes rustle and run and
hidehidehide
whisk
whisk look out for the old woman
with the wart on her nose
what she’ll do to yer
nobody knows
for she knows the devil ooch
the devil ouch
the devil
ach the great
green
dancing
devil
devil
devil
devil
wheeEEE
10.3k
My father worked with a horse-plough,
His shoulders globed like a full sail strung
Between the shafts and the furrow.
The horse strained at his clicking tongue.
An expert. He would set the wing
And fit the bright steel-pointed sock.
The sod rolled over without breaking.
At the headrig, with a single pluck
Of reins, the sweating team turned round
And back into the land. His eye
Narrowed and angled at the ground,
Mapping the furrow exactly.
I stumbled in his hob-nailed wake,
Fell sometimes on the polished sod;
Sometimes he rode me on his back
Dipping and rising to his plod.
I wanted to grow up and plough,
To close one eye, stiffen my arm.
All I ever did was follow
In his broad shadow round the farm.
I was a nuisance, tripping, falling,
Yapping always. But today
It is my father who keeps stumbling
Behind me, and will not go away.
5k
Eyes of fear,
Mouth of shock
Because I never saw it coming.
To the arena I return again,
My darkest horror already starting.
To my left,
I turn to see my mother,
Trying not to sob,
As I rethink the memories
I always had during summers
At the Hob.
Eyes wet,
Arms tired,
Barging through the door,
While picturing the future
And all the madness that's in store.
Gale and Prim,
My only treasures,
Are soon to say goodbye.
For this year in the Quarter Quell,
No more will there be a tie.
I'm deep in thought
As I review the words
For my last farewell,
When I realize a secret for Haymitch
That I can't wait to tell.
To protect Peeta
In this terrifying Quell
Is my one and only goal,
For I want him to come back to it
And live peacefully
In this district of coal.
To be strong is what I think of
While under the stars I lay.
To be strong
The only solution
For I am the Mockingjay.
Nov 24, 2013
Nov 24, 2013 at 9:14 AM UTC
Jane the economy toaster
Was cheap as appliances go
Her unpolished sides were all greasy
And as grey as suburbanite snow
The edge of her slot was all melted
And her tray was encrusted with crumbs
Her lever was missing a handle
And would nibble at fingers and thumbs
She lived at the back of a cupboard
With some rusty old pans and a spider
In the gloom she would dream that somebody
Would hammer a muffin inside her
That some special son-of-a-baker
Would fill up her dusty old holes
With croissants and baguettes and bagels
With waffles and tea cakes and rolls
But alas with her family broken
The whisk and second-rate kettle
Her owners replaced the whole set
With something more classy in metal
And so in her murky wee crevice
She wept and she twiddled her ****
She twitched her lever with envy
Of the toaster that lives by the hob
Jane faded away and she vanished
But in silicone heaven she boasts
That she's Jane the economy toaster
The maker of muffins for ghosts
Feb 9, 2013
Feb 9, 2013 at 6:14 PM UTC
Drummed their boots on the camion floor,
Hob-nailed boots on the camion floor.
Sergeants stiff,
Corporals sore.
Lieutenant thought of a Mestre ***** —
Warm and soft and sleepy *****
Cozy, warm and lovely *****
****** cold, bitter, rotten ride,
Winding road up the Grappa side.
Arditi on benches stiff and cold,
Pride of their country stiff and cold,
Bristly faces, ***** hides —
Infantry marches, Arditi rides.
Grey, cold, bitter, sullen ride —
To splintered pines on the Grappa side
At Asalone, where the truck-load died.
4.2k
"- The Greasy spoon -"
I wonder if there’s canteens
in Heaven;
with cottage cheese that’s
quite appealing
hob *** biscuits
n darjeeling -- yeah;
Wonder if there's canteens-
in heaven;
Maybe beans on toast
or a Sunday roast
is served by God
the holy ghost,
n his only son is the one-
who pours the gravy;
yeah;
wonder if there’s canteens - in Heaven.
Jan 27, 2012
Jan 27, 2012 at 12:42 PM UTC
Porage Oats?
Porridge simmering slowly on an old gas hob,
In a large enamel *** that was kept for this job.
We stirred it occasionally with a spoon shaped stick,
This stopped it burning or getting too thick.
You knew when it was time to do the spoon test,
If the spoon stood up strait then it was at its best.
Served with golden treacle the way I liked it most,
That melted like a glaze Oh yes and a slice of toast.
Those cold winter mornings it warmed the heart,
We would all walk to school with a healthy start.
Just been too busy working all my life,
No time to make porridge for me and my wife.
I have tried many new cereals in the past 40 years,
Some not to bad but containing too much sugar.
They call it glaze with bits of chocolate to,
But with a threat of diabetes it just will not do.
Now that I’m retired I go shopping every day,
More time for cooking in the old fashioned way.
Last winter a large promotion caught my eye,
It was for porridge, I could not pass it bye.
Not the instant stuff, cooked in minutes two,
It's Proper Porage Oats that sticks like glue.
Is this a second childhood where I want to play?
No, just a wholesome breakfast for a frosty day.
Jul 19, 2011
Jul 19, 2011 at 8:32 AM UTC
I have a little secret
It’s about the place I work
I’m supposed to be a teacher
But a school’s not where I lurk
I spend my weekdays cooking
Serving people tea
I’m not a chef though, in a classroom’s
Where I’m meant to be.
I think if I fry one more egg
Fill one more sugar ***
Spend one more minute worrying
If the ****** teapot’s hot
I might just lose the will to serve
At least the will to fry
I’m so tired of the ‘thanks so much’
The ‘have a good day’ lie
But please do not misunderstand
I’m not ungrateful for my job
It’s just not what I trained for
Being tied up to a hob
I expected to be in a class
Full of eager faces
Whose imaginations I could take
To so many different places
Instead I’m filling stomachs
Watching people eat and drink
I cook and serve, a faceless drone
So they don’t have to think
I know it’s not forever
This job I’ve grown to hate
One day I’ll take this apron off
Leave the café to its fate
The café will survive I’m sure
In fact I have no doubt
That’s why I don’t feel guilty
That I can’t wait to get out
The café will go on and on
Still serving up its tea
But next time that I see the place
What stranger will serve me?
Will I feel that they are in my place?
That their eggs are not quite right
That their service could be quicker
Their smile a bit more bright
Will I feel that I should tell them
How I once stood in their shoes?
How I thought if I fried one more egg
My sanity I’d lose
I think I’ll save those comments
Until she brings my tea
I won’t want to discourage her
While she’s still serving me
Besides she may enjoy her job
Who am I to wreck it?
Just because I missed the world
Of Austen, Keats and Beckett
She knows just where her future lays
I thought I knew the same
So why do I still keep a secret
Like it’s a source of shame?
I shouldn’t moan about my job
The wolf’s not at the door
It’s only bad days when I think
Just what did I train for?
Jun 13, 2012
Jun 13, 2012 at 11:06 AM UTC
WHERE dips the rocky highland
Of Sleuth Wood in the lake,
There lies a leafy island
Where flapping herons wake
The drowsy water-rats;
There we've hid our faery vats,
Full of berries
And of reddest stolen chetries.
Come away, O human child!
To the waters and the wild
With afacry, hand in hand,
For the world's morefull of weeping than you
can understand.
Where the wave of moonlight glosses
The dim grey sands with light,
Far off by furthest Rosses
We foot it all the night,
Weaving olden dances,
Mingling hands and mingling glances
Till the moon has taken flight;
To and fro we leap
And chase the frothy bubbles,
While the world is full of troubles
And is anxious in its sleep.
Come away, O human child!
To the waters and the wild
With a faery, hand in hand,
For the world's morefully of weeping than you
can understand.}
Where the wandering water gushes
From the hills above Glen-Car,
In pools among the rushes
That scarce could bathe a star,
We seek for slumbering trout
And whispering in their ears
Give them unquiet dreams;
Leaning softly out
From ferns that drop their tears
Over the young streams.
Come away, O human child!
To to waters and the wild
With a faery, hand in hand,
For to world's morefully of weeping than you
can understand.
Away with us he's going,
The solemn-eyed:
He'll hear no more the lowing
Of the calves on the warm hillside
Or the kettle on the hob
Sing peace into his breast,
Or see the brown mice bob
Round and round the oatmeal-chest.
For be comes, the human child,
To the waters and the wild
With a faery, hand in hand,
from a world more full of weeping than you
can understand.
2.2k
(1)
I am the huckster of love, bibulous in love
She is my bijou, she is my billow
She is my Hob-goblin.
2
At dead of night she called me
I fell into oblivion
She came off with flying colors
I was impressed by her green eye
She was a pack of lies
I sailed, I sailed under her false colors
I sailed, I sailed under her false colors
3
These are the hows and whats of my love
Waiting to pay the debt of nature
Waiting for the call of my creator
Living to write my swan song, living to write my swan song
Expecting to write it ere long, expecting to write it ere long
4
I am the huckster of love, bibulous in love
She is my bijou, she is my billow
She is a hob-goblin.
Oct 7, 2013
Oct 7, 2013 at 6:56 PM UTC
I’m sitting down to write a poem
Instead of tidying up
Or dusting off the mantelpiece
Or washing up my cups
Or ironing or vacuuming
Or looking for a job
Or moving all those papers
That have settled on the hob.
Its not really a poem
It’s a reason and excuse
because when it comes to housework
I’m just no bleedin’ use!
Dec 10, 2012
Dec 10, 2012 at 6:27 PM UTC
I fell in love with a superstition.
She kept crystals at her bedside
to ward off wraiths and bailiffs,
selling friendship bracelets to
strangers on the internet whilst
keeping family in her prayers.
She would wander the fields
of **** and sunflower seeds,
howling at the moon without
another soul to converse with;
obsessive-compulsive murmurs
of a Hail Mary and incantations.
Potions of ayahuasca and sugar
brewed on the hob in the kitchen,
fridge magnets full of idioms and
passages from the Book of Psalms.
By the fire sat a pristine tin cauldron
with the price-tag still left on it.
Broomsticks were mounted on the wall
like lazy guitars or executed deer.
No photographs, only proud trinkets
and yoga mats; a crucifix hung over
every doorway, whilst she had learned
to cross her legs from all men and pain.
She laid me down on the bed
with a hungry sleight of hand
to show me her favourite trick;
I saw the marks on her arms
before she came alive in the dark,
and by the daylight - she had gone.
Dec 10, 2014
Dec 10, 2014 at 1:01 PM UTC
Once upon a mealtime
When salt had gone away
He had left in such a hurry
And with no sub to work his day
Poor pepper started panicking
Mostly missing his dear mate
But also with a worry
If he alone would taste so great
So he soon sent out a message
To all the pots upon the shelf
'Partner needed quickly,
I can't dust dinner by myself'
So suddenly came rescue
In fact response was vast
The rest of all the condiments
Took triumph for him fast
First of course came ketchup
So used to being shared
But pepper didn't quite believe
That they would be best paired
Then came Mr Mayo
With a winning stance he stood
But too eager for the winning
Pepper didn't think him good
In butted boisterous barbecue
Believing there was no other
Unless there could be any left
Of his favourite sweet chilli brother
But pepper wanted neither
For he cared about this dish
And they came in heavy servings
Which wouldn't be salts wish
Still with plenty choice left
He looked upon his friends
Mustards, chutneys and pickles
Fine flavours they'd all lend
But then he heard herbs and spices
Who were giving a loud shout
'If you want salt not to be needed
Then you'd best not leave us out!'
This quickly made him realise
That the best friends he could make
Would come not squeezed all over
But served with a gentle shake
So he rounded up the shakers
But he wouldn't work them all
'You're right you'll help me nicely
But who mostly? It's your call'
The chilli taking charge of things
Addressed pepper with this test
'Well what is this dish we're warming
And we'll tell you what works best?!'
When they looked upon the oven hob
They saw mix of veg and meat
Chopped finely and frying in a pan
Slowly taking up the heat
So suddenly they knew now
Who would win the role to take
Cajun and paprika
A fine taste they surely make
So shaked upon the cooking
It was served with a success
No one need ever know
That peppers day had been a mess
So later in the evening
When salt stumbled his way home
His apologies were heartfelt
'I'll never leave you all alone'
But pepper soon forgave him
He said 'there, there, it's ok'
For now he knew the secret
Of how to cook in the best way
Sep 18, 2015
Sep 18, 2015 at 11:54 PM UTC
Now when I call it the Village
well thats what
my mom calls it
but really its urban space
so today I walked around it
the first road
I came to has speed bumps
according to signs they are twined with towns in France
it called Hob Moat
and a moat it has
known to me as the woods
spent many happy hour riding up and down those hills
but the way it got built up
it's not a village
walk through the woods you get shops
which have change over time
there are two churches
one new bit like a carbuncle
a blot on the landscape built in the 60s
man they where so on drugs
what was in there heads
the other old
I got baptised there so did my brother
went to sunday school
they gave out stamps each time you attended
but within 20 mins you can walk
into countryside
but now I find that is changing to
MAN
why do we **** every thing up?
Apr 5, 2015
Apr 5, 2015 at 4:57 PM UTC
I once scrungled a tungus, dubbed Binglo Bungus,
Whose cungles were trungly, and cuds cumpily cunk.
But his drungles did fungle, so sadly he bungled,
And without hesitation, he glunked.
Four fingles he fangled, when, biggaly bangled,
Approached not a crowd, but an army of glimps.
And they clinkled his binkle, as he chinkily changled,
But The Bungus stopped not for the bimps.
He dringled those hob-glimps! Their ****** was drompled!
Their pebuses, feeble, buckled under the frung.
And he chungled their drungles, with fury he plungled.
To this day, not a glimp stands to cung.
But his fangling, untrungled, was far from the fringus,
And he fangled on forward another five flinks.
On the fifth flink, he bebussed, as his fangle was pepis,
So he humpled the drumpling ****
Sir Bungus fangled homeward, his blumpus was tungled.
His drungles rejonked, for the fungling was done.
They erected a frangus to plingus The Bungus,
And the drumpling **** that he'd won.
May 2, 2018
May 2, 2018 at 2:51 PM UTC
Where dips the rocky highland
Of Sleuth Wood in the lake,
There lies a leafy island
Where flapping herons wake
The drowsy water rats;
There we’ve hid our faery vats,
Full of berrys
And of reddest stolen cherries.
Come away, O human child!
To the waters and the wild
With a faery, hand in hand,
For the world’s more full of weeping than you can understand.
Where the wave of moonlight glosses
The dim gray sands with light,
Far off by furthest Rosses
We foot it all the night,
Weaving olden dances
Mingling hands and mingling glances
Till the moon has taken flight;
To and fro we leap
And chase the frothy bubbles,
While the world is full of troubles
And anxious in its sleep.
Come away, O human child!
To the waters and the wild
With a faery, hand in hand,
For the world’s more full of weeping than you can understand.
Where the wandering water gushes
From the hills above Glen-Car,
In pools among the rushes
That scarce could bathe a star,
We seek for slumbering trout
And whispering in their ears
Give them unquiet dreams;
Leaning softly out
From ferns that drop their tears
Over the young streams.
Come away, O human child!
To the waters and the wild
With a faery, hand in hand,
For the world’s more full of weeping than you can understand.
Away with us he’s going,
The solemn-eyed:
He’ll hear no more the lowing
Of the calves on the warm hillside
Or the kettle on the hob
Sing peace into his breast,
Or see the brown mice bob
Round and round the oatmeal chest.
For he comes, the human child,
To the waters and the wild
With a faery, hand in hand,
For the world’s more full of weeping than he can understand.
Feb 4, 2017
Feb 4, 2017 at 7:09 PM UTC
Austerity emblazoned in silk
fallen out of the ranks
in the popularity stakes
the iced tea on the hob
warmingingly out of character
Do you recall turning the page of irony
yellowed blotter, signature book
of those you'll never meet again
autographed in old inked scrawl
holed up with cobwebbed coats
Well, they don't bother you now
even though they stared you down
head hunted the perfect prefect of popularity
seeking you to check out the aged paper trail
their current capabilities warranting a slice
Settling, the nest felt comfy
nurturing, gifts placed at your feet
you dislodged the parrot from your shoulder
it left its calling card, a neat reminder,
chatted up colourful clowns in the corner
Squatting within a lurch of emotion
fried eyed, stop tap turned off
zero shifting into first place
cashing in their deposit too late
they paid in full willingly....it seemed
Steamrollered, you left the game
parked your plastic smile
scrubbed clean the mossy mess
sat back amongst daisy/buttercup armies
felt the hot poker of rejection, water.....devoured it
Apr 23, 2013
Apr 23, 2013 at 8:45 AM UTC
partially due to the weather,
state of the roads.
these are not just closed
due to snow, some
as cars slide, cause a commotion.
it is a steep hill, the crimea,
some call it a mountain
steeped in history.
plans change, while
the bus windows remain *****
sbm.
nails
#notes and jottings
Esgidiau Meirw Boot Dump, Moel Bowydd Primary Reference Number (PRN) : 14626 Trust : Gwynedd Community : Ffestiniog NGR : SH69924845 Site Type (preferred type first) : Modern REFUSE DISPOSAL SITE Legal Protection : Description : A mound of slate waste covered to an unknown depth with the (?burnt) remains of thousands of hobnail boots, heel plates, nails, eyelets etc. Dimensions 40 x 30 x 2.5m. <1> A low mound about 35m in diameter lies to the east of the A470 (Plate 66). Its earliest phase consists of slate waste from a shallow linear working shown on the 1889 OS 25 map. This is almost entirely covered by a dump of waste boots. The upper layer consists entirely of heel plates, eyelets, nails, screws, sole shanks and occasional sole plates (Plate 67). Beneath this is a thick layer of ash, also containing metal fittings. Until quite recently there was a grave slab with a pair of boots incised on it along with the inscription Esgidiau Meirw (dead shoes). The stone now lies on the wall of PRN 14777 (Plate 68). It was probably moved by the land-owner for safe keeping after being daubed with paint. The dump is known locally as Tomen Sgidiau (boot dump) and dates from World Wall II. The boots are rejects from a factory that was set up in Blaenau Market Hall to recycle old boots and shoes for the army. (Hopewell, 2005) A low heap of slate waste lying to the east of the present main road. The tip is covered with the rusted metal fittings of a large number of hob nailed boots, and other small metal waste, including nuts and bolts. There is also a significant quantity of a fine silty material – possibly the residue of burnt and decayed leather. On top of the mound is a slate grave slab with a pair of boots incised upon it and the inscription “Esgidiau Meirw” (dead shoes). The feature is thought to be a World War II army boot dump. (Riley & Roberts, 1995) Sources : Riley, H. & Roberts, R. , 1995 , A470(T) Blaenau Ffestiniog to Cancoed Improvement ( © GAT) Hopewell, D. , 2005 , A470 Blaenau Ffestiniog to Cancoed Improvement Pt I & II ( © GAT) Hopewell, D. , 2000 , Upland Survey 2000 , <1> Events : 40503 : Gwynedd Upland Survey 1999-2000 Moel Bowydd (year : 2000) 43801 : A470 Blaenau Ffestiniog to Cancoed Improvement: Archaeological Recording PtI&II; (year : 2005) 40295 : A470(T) Blaenau Ffestiniog to Cancoed Improvement (year : 1995)
see also
boot dump incomplete blog
https://sonjabenskinmesher.wordpress.com/2015/03/26/boot-dump-2/
Jan 16, 2016
Jan 16, 2016 at 1:39 AM UTC
Logos are really fun on Photoshop,
so I make them from lots of sites.
They are really enjoyable to crop,
at any dear angles or any heights!
Editing pictures are amusing too,
and so I Photoshop any ***** ones.
I do love making any in good view(s),
so have actually alter precisely: tons!
I've had people compliment my work,
and so am indeed very proud of them.
Any could have me smiling or smirk,
since my precious hobby is like a gem!
Analyzing pictures is while such a fun hob,
it could also, for me, be like a prized job!
Sep 11, 2017
Sep 11, 2017 at 1:19 AM UTC
Paulette had phoned in a frenzy, she
Was having a crying fit,
I said, ‘I can’t understand you girl,
Slow down, slow down a bit!’
And then she told me that John was dead
That she’d found him lying there,
That somebody must have broken in
And crushed his skull with a chair.
‘The place is a perfect shambles, Rob,
It looks like a bomb has hit,
There’s blood all over the hearth, the hob,
And outside, over the grit,
He must have left by the patio door
There are footprints over the tiles,
I’ve never seen so much blood before…’
And then she sobbed for a while.
I made the appropriate noises, just
To comfort her in her loss,
But really, I couldn’t care at all,
I just couldn’t give a toss,
For John had jumped in my woman’s bed
The moment my back was turned,
I had to hide that I felt so glad
That all of his boats were burned.
‘I need you Rob, will you come on down,
I can’t do this on my own,’
Her words, the nectar of ancient gods
I felt that my wings had grown.
‘I’ll be there, honey, I won’t be long,
We’ll tidy it up just pat,
I just have something I have to do,
I’ll pop by the Laundromat.’
I tied the washing bag by the neck
To drag it out to the car,
But only got to the hallway when
There came a knock at the door,
A neighbour wanted to borrow a tool
So I rummaged round in the shed,
And when he went, I had to be gone,
Drove straight to my girl’s instead.
The police were crawling all over the place
And said that, ‘You can’t come in!’
‘I came express at my friend’s request.’
‘Too bad, but where have you been?’
I said I’d give them a statement, then
I shrugged and said, ‘That’s that!
Just tell Paulette I’ll come to her when
I’ve been to the Laundromat.’
The police were there at the Laundromat
When I sauntered in with the bag,
The sergeant stared and he pursed his lips
As my shoulders began to sag.
‘What’s that on the bag?’ he questioned me,
And I said, ‘it looks like mud!’
‘Now isn’t that strange, it seems to be
That your bag is seeping blood!’
David Lewis Paget
Jul 26, 2013
Jul 26, 2013 at 3:05 AM UTC
Secretly sprinkle my dust over Newt Gingrich's high fiber breakfast cereal . Or placed in the air plenum of a ritzy hotel whereby the elite should get a minuscule whiff of hardscrabble living , thrown on the interstate so as not to feel out of place , run over repeatedly by people that were forever needy ..By all means please pour me liberally over the Baked Alaska at any tax payer funded high price , 'hob knobbing' government extravaganza ! Usher my remains across a green farm pond to be eaten by catfish and passed to the bottom , carousing with the snails and the worms forever seeking cover . Perfectly content , hiding in the mud hoping not to be discovered ..
Feb 19, 2016
Feb 19, 2016 at 10:50 AM UTC
Hob nailed clogs and leather boots are what gives this man his homely roots
I puts them under me bed at night and in the morning I choose which pair is right and that depends on my mood.
Food is also a big contributor, I'd go a mile for hot *** or a pound of tripe and gripe if they were not up to scratch.
No, thee cannot match what we lads have and what we calls our own,born and raised we've grown in God own Land and if not God then someone even greater had a hand in this.
Lancashire the golden shire,not that them Yorkshiremen would agree with that sentiment but if God or whoever it was meant for that lot on t'other side o' pennines to be an agreeable sort,
he or she would never have invented such a sport as
cricket.
Sep 9, 2013
Sep 9, 2013 at 2:06 PM UTC
A little hob gobby stood by a sign
I'm a green goblin
Learned and wise
Bring me your poems
To criticise
He smiled and put his glasses on
Don't know if he liked it
I didn't stay long
Pay a farthing, earn a groat
You'll be a winner if I like what you wrote
He read one line and said go away
Unless you want me to spoil your day
I carried on, tears in my eyes
Tears of laughter, undone were his flies
If you can spare a poem or three
I would be eternally grateful to thee
It's put to good use
I am no liar
Too old to cut wood
I need fuel for the fire
Voice of an angel through purified air
How can I pay you for beauty so rare?
I cannot take payment for what I don't see
Take it good sir, to you it is free
A little tired, dragging my heels
Fed up with bargaining, bartering deals
I found a hollow of moss soft and deep
Laid down my head, surrendered to sleep
May 4, 2012
May 4, 2012 at 2:17 PM UTC
when I was small
to small to see over
the tabletop, my aunt
taught me to make God's Food
she gave me lessons
in baking, in alchemy
I stood on stool,
so I could mix the
ginger powder,
flour and eggs in
the big old green
mixing bowl
with a big wooden
spoon, half as tall as me
I wore an apron and had
one of my poppa's hanky's
tied over my hair...
My Auntie Barb,
poured over my dry mix
hot melted butter,golden syrup
and brown sugar, with careful
hands and then briskly mixed
it through, a glorious batter
was made.
together my hands
covered by hers,
soft comfort and calluses
would pour the batter into
old rectangle loaf tins,
paper and greased,
then into an oven
to bake and spread
the scent of ginger, cinnamon
and caramel, throughout the old
weatherboard house....
I would happily lick the spoon
and scrape every last bit of gooey batter
from the old palmolive green mixing bowl
as we waited for the baking alchemy to occur
Roughly forty minutes later,
the oven door would be opened
and loaf of gingered goodness
would appear, the kettle would be
placed on the hob to boil, tea in the ***
cups, plates and cutlery on the table
sugar,milk and butter too
Then her voice, would call
gingerbread is up, and all
would come, interrupting
footaball, a good book,
an afternoon nap,
or the tv program
nothing stopped one
coming for gingerbread
The loaf would be sliced
still warm and thick
almost overwhelming
all that warm ginger
so very exotic, then
it would be lathered
with butter, that would melt
almost on contact.....
and that was a such a feast
There was magic in that kitchen
even though I make ginger bread
the same way, something is missing
perhaps the warmth of the old oven
or some little pinch of salt or nutmeg
or perhaps the ginger has changed
Or it might be just nostalgia....
for simpler times..when my biggest
responsibility was mixing ginger bread batter
Jan 31, 2018
Jan 31, 2018 at 5:45 AM UTC