I

At school I learnt that domestic science was not my thing,

drove Mrs Wright to distraction

with the carnage of eggs shells and flour I left behind,

bemused her with my sense of humour;

that I could laugh

when my Swiss Roll refused to roll,

my Apple Crumble, crumble

my meringues fail to fluff

until

weary of her weariness,

I ditched the wicker basket

and took woodwork,

resistant materials they call it now,

though I’ve never seen a piece of wood

jump up and whack anyone.

 

II

In the prime of my life I learnt that domestic science was not my thing,

a total failure in every respect,

I could never make food lean enough

(the slightest trace of fat on a slice of ham

discernible through two slices of bread and the piccalilli)

could never cut the salad fine enough

(the success of a sandwich lying in its construction -

get that wrong and the whole thing crumbles at count down)

forgot too often that beef made a poor evening meal

for it’s hard to digest and lies heavy on the stomach

much like sadness on the heart.

Too long I laboured in this art

before the penny dropped

and I dropped it

the subject of course

turning instead to resistant material.

 

III

In middle age I learnt that domestic science was not a science

but a way of life, success or failure depending on the end consumer;

that just as poetry should be targeted to the right audience

so should food to the right palate

Now, be it beans on toast or boeuf bourginon,

every meal’s a michelin

basted with the odd glass of red,

washed down with merriment

Mrs Wright would be proud of me

Cos I’m cooking on gas