It may be an understatement
to say I regard myself as no cook.
I will tell you of my mother; glorious
Christmas cakes and sucking her fingers:
several, (many) siblings also latching on.
Their eager faces also leaned with me
over the old iron baby tub as we all
tested the spices in our father’s massive
preparations of Liverwurst.
That’s history: Now Trifle Christmas 2021
and this is me. Trifle, came the requests
as I too grow old and move, stepping aside
from the dressing and glazing of ham;
the stuffing of chicken, roasting of vegetables;
The ubiquitous pea and potato salad
with Dad’s continental salad dressing. Again
I am delegated a salad. I up the plan and choose
lettuce, tomatoes, spring onions and cucumber
laced liberally with prawns; Dad’s continental
dressing in a provisional jug; a lighter indulge.
But anyone can make a salad I concur.
Back to the trifle! “Please make us your trifle Nan.”
This time I would make it their way. They all like
trifle swamped in jelly whereas I took the customary
custard as the binder. Jelly layer number one was red.
And on top of that came green jelly with subversive
dribblings of port wine, marking the bowl as to those
servings. Topped it all with a layer of custard. All
tastes catered for then. Cream and fresh cherries.
We gather at Martin’s house this year. What a
wonderful table he has laid out in the carport. And
as I approach Martin lifts both salad, secure
in a woven carry bag.
and: Trifle: in a supermarket brown paper-bag;
not so secure.
Glass made a wretched sound as it clattered on the
back step. Next year I will make “The Trifle” again.
But I will be much more careful as to it greater transport;
condensation and brown paper-bags.
Benita H. Kape (c) 12.1.2021
Today for “dVerse take a look. https://dversepoets.com/2022/01/11/tuesday-poetics-food/ we write on food. What could be more enjoyable. Thank you Sarah for the chance to tell of our trifle tragedy at Christmas.