Poem

Glorious Food

Kate Gordon

D'ye mind when yer mammy made tatties an mince
Fu' o' onions an carrots an neeps,
A roll n Lorne sausage wi' HP on toap,
A big bowla soup an a piece. 

Biled eggs wi' butter mashed up in a cup,
Herrins in oatmeal an mash,
Steak pie an peas or a nice gigot chop,
Ham an cabbage an corn beef hash.

Rhubarb or aipples baked intae a sponge,
Pineapple chunks in ice cream,
A big clootie dumplin a' burstin wi' fruit,
That filled the hale kitchen wi' steam.

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Keywords: 
Poem, Scots, scotland, memories

Mother's Milk

Susan Cochrane-Brown

Referendum Day, September 18th 2014

Edinburgh Royal Infirmary

Soft, warm, peachy skin,
You writhe and wriggle,
Against my loose stomach,
Stretched to excess by the last nine months.

A look of contentment starts to change,
You cry out, shrill and urgent,
My heart begins to race,
Mother's instinct taking hold of me.

It's 3am, the news is turning sour,
I'm buffered from the reality by my love of you,
My desire to provide all I can,
I've never felt like this before.

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The Chocolate Button

Anne Taylor

Chocolate buttons on the couch
Gripping film, such a slouch
Broken button, dropped a piece
Kept on watching, couldn’t cease
Reached down blindly, found the morsel
Picked it up, tasted awful…
Tangy, crunchy, not so sweet
A woodlouse, roaming, by my feet!

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Flourish

Thomas Ferris

On screen in black and white,
blink blink, mothering time, you got it right.
Nine months of growth and hormonal change,
Body begins to rearrange.
I see your pain as your hips pop,
See your belly grow and your feet flop.
I rub your back as you burp and fart,
And then the notions start.
Toast and ice-cream, beans and custard,
chicken curry and full spoon of mustard,
chocolate and custard sometimes just coal,
such a concoction for our blossoming foal.
Then back to the black and white for our bonnie wee man,

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Keywords: 
Poem, parenting, family, nutrition

Seasonal ritual 1950's

Eunice Thomson

Small clean potatoes
not dug
but foraged for
beneath the shaws

put to boil...a wait...then
water poured...nectar
placed into a soup plate
pats of fresh butter

no one greedy
we both had a taste
no cutlery
a food tasting?

No just my Granny and me
July long before the crop was lifted
in a council house garden
the promise of things to come

this was no meal...in all senses it nurtured
it does still

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Keywords: 
Poem, Grandparents, memories

Fussy Eater

Tony Cawthorne

“I don’t know how you can eat that,” she says, with no little disdain.
I’ve been expecting it, this very familiar refrain.
“Like this,” I say, stuffing forkfuls in like an uncultured swine.
I can see she’s not amused. I top up her wine.
“How’s the soup?” I ask brightly, hopefully. “Is it nice?”
She coughs a little for effect and says, “They’ve overdone the spice.”
She’s always been this way with food, I don’t know why.
They say some people live to eat, sometimes I think she’d rather die.

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The most needed meal.

Susan Cochrane-Brown

We set sail from Balvicar on a damp and murky day,
Me, my dad and Alan were off and on our way,
I pulled the sheets to move the boom,
We tacked out in to the bay,
Heading off to Craobh through the misty, foggy, gray.

The dampness grew and we became soaked through to the skin,
My fancy sailing jacket was letting water in,
We powered on through the squall,
The menfolk fuelled by Gin,
Heading down to Craobh with my patience wearing thin.

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Cook You

Butter your thighs with freedom
with honour, dust your feet
ice your eyes with no disguise
and let your truth slice deep
grate the voice of unreason
from inside your brain
dip your fingers in possibilities
and lick away the pain
whip up the froth of your desire
taste it before it’s set
add a sprinkling of joy
sift it with respect
crack the crust around your heart
and serve with custard instead
brew a pot of kindness
in the oven of your breast
knead your hips with action

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Keywords: 
Poem, cooking

Milk

Shirley McKendry

I breast-fed for a decade.
No, don't be daft!
I mean
I produced children
and fed them
one after the other
for ten glorious years.

I watched their wee bodies
fill and stretch and bloom,
day after day
sustained purely by
me.

It was all me.
My milk.
All me.

Even the early one who weighed in at a pittance
soon clobbered the air with fatted fists
and rippled dimpled chins
after barely a moment,
it seemed.

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Boeuf Bourguingon (Glasgow Style)

Hey Pe'er d'ye mind in France last year
And the stew you ate when we wur there
Well am gonnae show ye how it's made
But don't be scerred a'll be it yer side

First of a' ye cut up the steak
Don't worry too much if ye make a mistake
Put the oil in the frying pan and get it hoat
Noo put some meat in, but no a loat.

Broon the garlic and the onion - aye they pong
But they're whit keep the flavours strong
Wance that's done, add in the rid wine
Aye a'll let ye hiv some another time.

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Keywords: 
Poem, Scots, make your own

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