Browse Nourish Stories by Keyword

Antie Mary’s Auld Kitchen

Emma Guinness

Pot wis piled oan pot efter pot
In Antie Mary’s auld kitchen.
The doors wur hangin’
By their hinges
Like Antie Mary hursel.
Ah wis just a wean when she tellt
Me hoo tae make sticky
Meringues wi’ strawbs an’ cream.

Salt oan cheesy twists left a bitter
Taste in ma mooth
Like the big reid button
Ootside the kitchen.
The button Antie Mary didnay press
When she fell
Doon wan last time.
She lay oan that flair fur days.

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Apricots and Toffee

Melanie McAinsh, @mmca256

When we emigrated from Glenrothes to Johannesburg in 1970, Dad said there would be orange and banana trees in the street, ripe for picking. It wasn't really like that but the Van der Meer family next door had an apricot tree in their yard and a swimming pool.

Every morning the sun woke me. As I yawned and stretched I could see any changes in the tree. The blossoms came first, the pale papery flowers opening for what seemed only a moment before giving way to hazelnut sized balls which fattened and developed an embarrassed blush of orange.

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Banana Thief

Laura McLean

I am the proud owner of two beautiful male dumbo rats, also known as fancy rats. One a brown cinnamon called Beris, the other a grey and white Russian blue called Darios. I named them after two characters from two different novel series I am working on.

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Berries

DJ Fox

People look at me strangely: "Are you allergic to them?", "What's not to like?", "These are straight out the garden, you'll love them."

Strawberries were a luxury in our house, only available in the summer, and only served when people came to tea, which wasn’t often. Snowed under by a mountain of sugar and drenched in Nestle’s condensed milk, I loved them. Then, when I was thirteen, I went to The Berries.

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Bramble Jam

I know my corner of Glasgow as a tangled patch, routes mapped by tiny rose white petals and drawn in swathes of shooting bramble bush. Trailing tendrils pull me along overgrown pathways, behind crumbling walls and into forgotten spaces. Down by the river, beside the canal, near old rail tracks, on parkland and waste ground, where branches catch at hair and spike sleeves.

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Childhood Memories, A Kitchen Garden 1950

Elspeth Anderson

In the autumn of 1950 my family relocated to Temple Village. Our new home was an old stone cottage, roses round the door and an untamed garden. Post-war, government issue ration books were still required for groceries, just one shop in the street. Relatives in New York dispatched food parcels from overseas. Tinned fruit, peaches, apricots, biscuits – the delivery of the box caused great excitement.

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Foodie Tips Courtesy of Yuri Gagarin

Sherry Morris, @Uksherka

I remember the day I got my plot at the local community garden. I felt a mixture of fear and excitement. Fear because I wasn’t sure I could grow anything. Excitement because if I could grow something, anything – be it potatoes, spinach, peas, broad beans – it’d be very satisfying to eat the food I’d grown. I knew there was something else in this mixture, something deeper – I couldn’t name it then, but I could feel it.

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Fried Eggs and Ham

Lindsay Quayle

My grandad was a man of simple tastes. He travelled the world with the Royal Marines but his home, and his heart, were very much rooted in North Yorkshire. From an early age, memories of visiting him centred around food. Nothing flash, fancy, or high end. Just a faded yellow tin of ginger nuts, or a burst paper bag with a jam doughnut hiding in the corner. And chips. Proper, old fashioned, chip-pan chips. They were never skinny or curly or crinkle cut, but they were always made with patience and care, and left the satisfying scent of starch and salt lingering in the back kitchen.

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Jelly Pans and Peas

Barry Fairweather, @bfuk

The sweetness of summer fruits yielding.
To the jelly pan's bubbles and pops.
The jams that will set and be sealed in.
The jars, waxed paper and tops.

With baking, preserving and chatter.
As rock buns and bannocks and tea.
Are helping to calm and relax us.
There's nowhere that I'd rather be.

The scent of the kitchen delights me.
Evoking the thrills as a child.
Of shelling the peas,
And buzzing from bees.
In their honeycombed home in the wild.

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Mango

A poem “Mango” which 'nourishes' my childhood memories. April, May and June is the mango season in India and Asian shops in Glasgow stock a variety of mangoes from the sub-continent. Alphonso, Rumani, Badami, Banganapalli are popular varieties. Here is the poem:

Tiny green mango, picked on from on high,
bit hard, sour, white saps burns the impatient tongue,
evokes memories of childhood days, a sigh
ensues, a new life oceans away, far flung.

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