Nourish Author Story

No Thanks For All The Fish

Good food should nourish.
Good food such as fish.
It's good for the soul. For the brain.
I. Hate. Fish.
We thought my daughter might have an intolerance.
Like me.
We were advised to lay off any piscine cuisine until she was three. Then the allergy specialist told us to offer our child a wee scrap of cod. To see if she reacts.
Fish Roulette.
She's fine, of course.

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To Nourish means to care for and love, and the way I was brought up to show this is with food. I remember my mother’s fishcakes, oh how I loved them. She would make them from Hake steaks bought from Mrs Hartley, the fishmongers at the bottom of Risedale road, Barrow in Furness. Oh they were good.  She would poach the hake in milk with salt, white pepper and a couple of dried bay leaves. The fish would be flaked and mixed with an equal amount of cold buttery mashed potato.

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Memories of Chocolate and Warm Air

I find the box when looking for something else, at the back of that awkward high shelf in the wardrobe that can only be reached when I stand on a chair and lean in. It’s a shoe box, old and tattered now. It smells musty when I lift the lid and I wonder what was so important to be put away carefully. At first glance it looks like nothing much; just letters, trinkets and other things I once thought worthy of keeping. It’s been a long time since I put them there.

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Liz Niven

Afore the sickness,
fir twentie thrie weeks,
the wean in the womb grew an thrived,
gently movin aroon its sweet cocoon.

Durin the sickness,
the wean birled tapsalteerie, heelstergoudie,
ower an ower, hour efter hour, throu the lang bokin day. 

Efter the sickness,
aw wis schtum.
A deid dearth o oniethin. Nae a twinge,
or a wee heid hard agin the womb’s wa,
or a knee jaggin unner a rib. 

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Round lettuce and a wee syboe

I heard her voice, scolding but kind, as I reached into one of my kitchen cupboards and rummaged through the contents. Amongst things she’d never have heard of: turmeric, rigatoni, couscous, nam pla. Ingredients used to make food from places she’d never visited.

 “Jings lassie whit a stuff ye’ve got!”

Then, as I groped in the back of the fridge for an opened jar of something that I was sure should still be there, I saw it in my minds-eye, her freezing cold pantry with the fly-net over the tiny window, and a slab of white and grey marble that the milk and butter stood on.

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Alexandria Patience

I made a couple of promises before starting the voyage.

One: This was to be no pilgrimage sharing my feminist politics.

Two: No camera. I would have experiences, rather than photographing them for later. I had a strategy: when the urge to photograph came; I would open my eyes wider, look harder, breathe deeply and blink. I am camera.

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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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Keywords (not used): 
Nourish Author Story, travel, childhood, fruit, memories

Bread and Stories

Linda Cracknell

Morningside Road, late afternoon on a weekday evening and I’m drinking tea and eating a chocolate brownie, alone in the window of a café with my back to other customers; mostly one to each table. Between me and the shop windows opposite, a river rushes: cars, vans, buses, cyclists and pedestrians – children going home from school or on their way to music lessons. Through the blur I notice – perhaps prompted by the brownie which is particularly, stickily succulent – a baker’s, ‘Goodfellow & Steven’. It looks closed, at least from this side.

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Do you know the way to Sao Tome?

Fiona Thackeray

You leave Lisbon on the midnight plane; arrive at dawn on a teardrop-shaped island, a tiny scrap of Africa, cut adrift from the coast, moored to the Equator. You emerge from the two-room airport, blinking in the brightness: this is the way to Sao Tome and Principe.

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Sea buckthorn and sea

Uuganaa Ramsay

“YES!” My eleven-year-old cries out so loudly that I can hear him three rooms away. Scotland must have scored. It’s the World Cup qualifying match, Scotland versus Slovenia. He is allowed to stay up to watch the game because he’s got himself ready for school tomorrow. When I say ready, that is to say he’s had a shower and his school clothes are washed and ironed for the week. I hope he didn’t wake his sisters.

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