Competition

IN COMPETITION No 259, you were invited to write a poem called Cooking for One. Philip Booth’s solitary cook wondered whether to stay at home and cook for widower Dad, while Peter Davies’s married narrator dreamt of pleasing himself. Richard Spenser’s favourite things repelled: ‘Licking my lips at my Spam-based frittata / Turning a Twirl into “chocolate moussaka”.’ Commiserations to them and congratulations to those printed below, each of whom wins £25, with the bonus prize of The Chambers Dictionary of Great Quotations going to G M Southgate.

First thing: turn your computer off, you’ve worked since six am, You’re absolutely starving and you’re on your own, pro tem. So dig a fat white onion out, and dice it very fine, Add two crushed cloves of garlic and a glass of good red wine, Then put in oregano, thyme, and sugar (just a tad), A tin of chopped tomatoes, and the best mince to be had. If you like, throw in some pepper, broken mushrooms, what you will, Some fennel, even, but leave out the stronger herbs, like dill. Cook all of this down slowly on an even, gentle heat, And you’ll end up with a pasta sauce that’s pretty hard to beat. At this point, pour yourself another glass of something red, Boil up spaghetti in a pan, or penne shapes instead, Add just a little oil so that the pasta moves about, Then drain, supply a shallow bowl, and spoon the supper out. Italian food is just the thing to cook if you’re on furlough; A dish for one, and perfect with another glass of Merlot. G M Southgate ____________________________ Over the final years, he served her food With salted tenderness, knowing one day Her illness would prevail, yet it was good Simply to share. Meal-making was his way Of giving life. He watched her fingers reach For the spoon she liked to use, but in the end His hands were hers and through his gentle touch She fought to stay a lover and a friend. Cooking for her made living purposeful;

On careful plates he brought her breaths of life. She sighed and coughed, but life was bearable When fate allowed this service to his wife. Two weeks ago such dinner times were done. God only knows how well he cooks for one. Frank Mcdonald

It isn’t fun to cook for one, No warm anticipation Of what will greet the food we eat, No joy in conversation. Nor is it fun to sit with none When cooking time has ceased; No friendly chat, no ‘How was that?’, No friends around a feast. Our TV cooks write clever books That give a solo meal Some golden name as if to claim It has its own appeal. But where’s the fun in having none To share delicious roast? Instead, for me, I’ll brew some tea With humble beans on toast. Max Ross ____________________________ I’m telling you, Officer, just what I saw. They stood in the lounge and she laid down the law. She shouted; he cowered – the usual war.

She’s proud of her cooking; her kitchen’s her life. He shops and he cleans. He’s a slave to that wife. A meek little chap; she’s a tongue like a knife.

I’ve followed her recipes, tried out her cakes, Admired her skill and the care that she takes. He’s banned from the kitchen – the fuss that she makes!

No, please, this is serious – I don’t ring for fun. I’m telling you, Officer, murder’s been done. I’m perfectly certain – HE’S COOKING FOR ONE! Shan Middleton

COMPETITION No 261 I have, I admit, been bad-tempered on some days this year. A poem called Snapping (in any sense), please. Maximum 16 lines. This month we cannot accept any entries by post, I’m afraid, but do send them by e-mail (comps@theoldie.co.uk – don’t forget to include your own postal address), marked ‘Competition No 261’, by 12th November.