Competition

IN COMPETITION No 217 you were invited to write a poem called ‘The Kitchen’. Plenty of accomplished verse dishes were served. Andre Bamji’s narrator ended up like Philip May, putting the bins out. Robert Maclean worked up to the punchline: ‘Nascetur ridiculus mousse’. Christine Roberts thought of the ice in the Scotch as she and her neighbour withdrew their kitchen labour. Commiserations to them and congratulations to those printed below, each of whom wins £25, with the bonus prize of a Chambers Biographical Dictionary going to Philip Merivale.

It’s Saturday night and I’ve nothing to do, Big Mama’s upstairs in bed with the ’flu. Rain’s kicking off and my jeans are in the wash Bank man’s a bad man and I ain’t got no dosh.

Guitar’s a string short and meter’s on zero No gas in the tank and I’ve run out of beer-o. So here’s me by the kitchen table, All messed up, bad, mad and unable

With cold tea leaking from a cracked mug – With the flea-bit dog dead asleep on the rug, ...I then recall a thing I once heard… Way back then, when my soul was disturbed.

It unclenched my fist like a zephyr from the sea That backs the big jib, to sail by the lee. ‘With only one shoe, you think you’re incomplete - But try walking, man, with no feet.’ Philip Merivale

Here we are, the surface gleaming, Herbs and spice for saint or satyr, Asafoetida through to za’atar Every drawer or nook is teeming:

Here are skillet, griddle, wok, Pitter, splitter, scorer, reamer, Fryer, braiser, crisper, steamer, Fifteen different types of stock.

Recipes from Ramsay, Beeton, David, Slater, Lawson, Grigson, Toklas, Ottolenghi, Dickson: All demanding to be eaten!

Hanging from the butcher’s hook: Kangaroo and cassowary. Here’s the pantry, full of dairy One day, I must learn to cook. Bill Greenwell

I have a new man in my kitchen, He’s made an incredible start. Eggs Benedict, paté, pavlova, He’s cooking his way to my heart. I sit with my fork at the ready, The table is beautifully laid. Such food is an art form, a still-life, I demolish posh nosh he has made. He brings to my life lots of lardons, With rondelles and goujons galore, I gaze at quenelles he’s created And find myself asking for more. It’s time maybe now just to ponder If this love of food is pure greed, Or whether the arteries, furring, Cry out ‘It’s some statins you need!’ Jennifer Guilliard

The kitchen was my sole domain; Your only input ‘What’s for tea?’ But how the tables now are turned Since you insist you cook for me.

I’m sick of spice, of tarragon, Of yellow saffron; blackened squid Of octopus and cuttle-fish As you ignore the things I did.

I’ve come to dread the scent of Thai, The smelly squabs and half-done duck Reductive sauces; foraged weeds With venison from bleeding buck.

I long for simple beef or stew And though you still remain my dear As yet another dish is served I wish you anywhere but here. Iris Bull

Competition No 219 The loose four-line verse called the Clerihew is easy to write but hard to write well. It begins with someone’s name. One example by its inventor EC Bentley goes: ‘John Stuart Mill, / By a mighty effort of will, / Overcame his natural bonhomie / And wrote Principles of Political Economy’. So please write a witty Clerihew on a well-known figure. Send two or three, if you like. Entries, by post (The Oldie, Moray House, 23/31 Great Titchfield Street, London W1W 7PA) or e-mail (comps@theoldie.co.uk - don’t forget to include your postal address), to ‘Competition No 219’ by 18th August.