TASTY!

Raw liver of a warty toad,
Crispy hedgehog scraped up from the road,
Crunchy scales of viper’s belly,
Algae cakes with frog spawn jelly.

No, that wasn’t what I cooked,
But it might have been, the way you looked.
What’s wrong with it? Mmm. It tastes quite nice.
You’d think I’d served you pickled mice!
How many times must I repeat it?
Why won’t you take your food and EAT IT?

Don’t worry. A cauldron I shall borrow,
And you’ll get witches’ brew tomorrow.

MAKING BUNS

The squelch of margarine in the big beige bowl,
A silent stream of sultanas making the recipe whole,
Shiny blobs of mixture into tins, with care,
Glittering with sugar. Licking up the spare,
When my grandmother made buns.

On bright midsummer mornings, holidays for schools,
At Final Score on Saturdays, all watching for the Pools,*
Honeyed from the oven, moist and warm they came,
And no one else’s buns were ever quite the same
As when my grandmother made buns.

*The football pools is a type of betting, where adults can gamble on predicting the results of football matches. It was very popular when I was a child.

I LIKE EGGS AND JELLY

Listen to this

Flies are tasty morsels that a spider likes to eat,
Birds think worms, with wiggly squirms, a juicy little treat,
Cats like smelly meaty stuff we slop out of a tin,
Foxes scrape and scratch the scraps from any brimming bin;
But I like eggs and jelly,
Eggs and jelly, eggs and jelly
Wibbling and wobbling round my belly.

Cows are big, but they prefer to chew just grass for tea,
A lion would eat a cow and I expect it could eat me!
Elephants like trees and leaves and whales love their krill,
A great white shark might eat whatever creature it could kill,
But I like eggs and jelly,
Eggs and jelly, eggs and jelly
Wibbling and wobbling round my belly.

Dinosaurs were giants, eating lots of things I guess;
I wonder what a dragon likes – of course, a fair princess.
Robots munch scrap metal when they want a crunchy bite,
But I know what I’d like to see in front of me tonight.
I like eggs and jelly,
Eggs and jelly, eggs and jelly
Wibbling and wobbling round my belly.

Baked beans are sometimes mentioned as people’s favourite food,
And others say that liquorice is lovely when it’s chewed;
There are those that slurp spaghetti, love bananas, crave for toast;
But I don’t want ketchup. Don’t like chips. Here’s what I want most:
I like eggs and jelly,
Eggs and jelly, eggs and jelly
Wibbling and wobbling round my belly.

APPLES AND PEACHES

Ripe and lovely is the peach,
With flushed unblemished skin,
But biting can reveal and reach
What creeps and crawls within.

The apple’s core lies moulding,
As if with rank disease,
But still within its heart is holding
The power to be new trees.

COLD NOODLE

Why have I just found
Two tiny strands
Of cold noodle on the stairs?
A minuscule hemisphere
Of soy sauce clings
To my left finger nail,
As evidence
Of my discovery.

This is one of life’s
Deepest mysteries.

COOKERY

You know there’s been a cooking programme showing
When Dad pops out to buy some extra food,
And when we ask what there will be for dinner,
He’s in a very secret sort of mood.

And not long after lunch he shuts the kitchen;
He asks if we would kindly not disturb.
The radio’s on and there’s a lot of clattering,
With smells of garlic, spices and strange herbs.

There’s bubbling and there’s steaming in the kitchen,
Some bashing and a slightly naughty word:
If only we could tell what’s in the kitchen
From all the curious noises we have heard.

We wait, with an uncertain anticipation,
Wondering how today’s trial feast will rate:
We’re never sure of feeling truly hungry
Until we’ve seen what’s piled on the plate.

SUGAR

I sometimes find brown sugar that’s gone
Solid as a rock.
It’s not the most convenient thing
A cupboard has in stock.

I’ve had to bash and pound the stuff
With a trusty rolling pin,
Scattering sugar shrapnel shards
As far as the kitchen bin.

Breaking rocks like prison brawn,
Or fossil hunting fans;
A sort of mini quarry scene
Amongst the pots and pans.

It all becomes quite tedious when
The bashing tires my hand,
But oh the satisfaction as
The rocks become golden sand.

It takes up time, this bashing lark,
The crushing and the crunch,
Can take up half the morning and
Delay the time for lunch.

You never know with baking if
It’s going to go well,
Or if your pet ingredients
Might suddenly rebel.

I guess we can’t control the world,
No matter what’s at stake.
Things do not always go to plan,
Not even making cake.

LISA PIZZA

I once knew a lady called Lisa
Who ate far too much tuna pizza,
She smelt like a fish
And was round as a dish,
That pizza-stuffed lady called Lisa.

(With apologies to anyone actually named Lisa.)