Browse Nourish Stories by Keyword

"Nourish"

She’s no very good at cooking, is mum.
She’ll even admit that herself!
Although, I’ll confess, she’s no bad as some,
I’d still rather dad cook by himself… 

It’s silly, you know, the pressure she feels:
“The mother must cook in the nest!”
But there’s more to a mum than tasty meals,
Far much more than the cartoons suggest.

See, mum takes care of me in other ways,
“Nourish” doesn’t simply mean “food”.
It means being there, knowing what to say –
Giving the world (and more) if you could.

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Keywords: 
Poem, parenthood, love, cooking

A flower yet to flourish

Alex Anderson

The lonely soul sits to sigh
though desperately wanting to cry
“Where are you, my sweet,
come, sweep me off my feet
and be my one true love.
I have so much to give
but I can only wait to live
I am a flower yet to flourish
needing my own one to nourish
my need to be loved and loving.”

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Keywords: 
Poem, love, kindness

A Good Thing Wrapped in Another Good Thing

Johnny Owens

I woke up the morning after, bleary eyed and nauseated, stomach still raw from the night before. It was 6.00pm and I'd been asleep for sixteen hours. I propped myself up on my elbows before easing my way into a sitting position. I looked around at the room I'd grown up in while a sense of icy dread settled in the pit of my stomach, as the realisation began to set in. In that moment, I longed to melt back into those few seconds after I woke. That place – found after hours in a deep sleep – where the reality of this world, this place, is entirely uncertain to you, if only for a brief moment.

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A Grandchild's Lament

S. Fox-May

Through a window
Framed by the flowers of a lilac tree
Me: bald til I was three
You: apron on and humming free
"You're a good cooker Grandma,"
And you nourish me
With love

Now rich, me,
With love
I'll nourish you
The hospital's soft moist diet
Sips of tea punctuate hours of quiet
Trying to make sense of why it
Has to end this way

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Keywords: 
Poem, love, Grandparents

A is for Apple

George Roy

Act One.

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A Nourishing Start

Liz Denny

I am a child of Labour’s post-war welfare state. The children who were to have their diet supplemented with calcium from free milk, and vitamins A, B, C and D, contained in free ‘welfare foods’, ensuring our future growth and development. We were to be a healthier, better-nourished generation.

For my parents, who experienced the ‘hungry thirties’, having children of their own who were well nourished was at the forefront of their mind, it was part of their dream for a better society.

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A One Woman Cottage Industry

Alan Ling

When I think of food I often think of my mum.

Folk say “ye cannae beat your ma's cooking”, and I find that statement most agreeable when I look back at all the soups, stews, roasts, curries, salads and cakes she whipped up for our wee family.

I love food, and at 33 years old I will eat and enjoy pretty much anything – be it the filthy (battered macaroni cheese), the pretentious (flavoured ‘foams’) or the rather unnecessary (rancid shark meat).

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A Slice of Cake and a Plateful of Memories

Anne C. Logan

Sundays were very different then. In the early Seventies, there were no shops open, no cinemas and apart from attending church for the faithful, a soporific air pervaded the small town where I grew up. Even the dogs didn’t bark. I grew up in Cupar, Fife with my sweet, gentle Mum, my kind, selfless, comedic Dad and my elder sister, who was also my best friend. Back in those days, children actually got bored. No wall-to-wall entertainment in the form of iPads, game consoles and 24 hour kids’ television. Sometimes there was actually nothing to occupy us except our imaginations.

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Aidy's First Christmas

Heather Hughes

I heard the car door slam. Dad’s home.

Although, of course, he wasn’t. It was the noise that had plagued my subconscious for over a month now. The sound that had once been so comforting to me, was now like a punch in the gut. I wondered if the noise did the same thing to the rest of the family. We’d lost Dad a month earlier. Lost sounds somewhat trivial, doesn’t it? Lost as though I’d been careless and he’d turn up eventually if I tidied my room. No, Dad had passed away and now we were a family of four. Mum, Jen, Iain and me.

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Ambrosia (a sonnet)

The touch of her lips to my skin is all it takes.
This maternal instinct to supply, to nourish,
a miracle contained within every drop.
Looking down at her eyelashes, her rosy cheeks,
everything feels right.
This is my purpose. 

I am a force of nature, a Goddess,
the provider of harvests. But –
when the feeding ends
and I return to a life of mediocrity
no longer able to sustain
from barren breasts,

will I go into mourning like Demeter,
as my daughter goes into the world alone?

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