[John Whitworth]

FOOD FOR THOUGHT

The Oldie Competition
by Tessa Castro




IN COMPETITION NO 120 you were asked for a poem called 'What's for Dinner?' The entries were, I'm glad to say, moreish. 'Unless it's fried in oil or fat / The rule is simple - don't eat that,' declared phil Carradice. Tim Raikes cooked up a surprise ending in a dia-logue between husband and wife about 'a mince of mouse and rat'. Peter Davies's 'Fromage frais and custard treats, / Body-building fish and meats' were slightly wasted on the diner - a parrot; Frank McDonald's patient diner ('Really rare is how I like it') was a vulture. Jim C Wilson's musical repertoire kept coming back to Vivaldi. And there was a remark-able amount of cannibalism: 'They liked the white meat but they found the black was tough to chew,' wrote Roberta Gib-bons of the missionary's shoes.
Any of these and more might have won in a less appetising month. Com-miserations to them, and congratulations to those printed blow, who win £25 each, with the bonus pre-cenacular prize of a Taylor's of Harrogate tea and cake set going to the excellent David Woodhead.

First catch your hare; but not a jug-
A jar will do (remove the jam);
Flay the beast, and disembowel
('Skin' and 'paunch' for those who flam).

Give the stubble-stag a rinse
And chop him into bite-size lumps;
Arctic floured and seared in grease;
(Legs are left as useless stumps).

Make some gravy from an ox -
o! He has felt the slaughterer's slug-
And, seasoned (dead to Spring or Fall),
Hatter's friend's dropped in the jug.

Let him stew in his own juice
-Up to the neck in boiling pan;
With jelly red and forcemeat wined,
Devour young Longshanks, if you can.
David Woodhead

Guests to feed, and still in doubt?
Simply get the Marmite out!
Marmite, Marmite, what a star!
What a taste-storm in a jar!
Packed with vitamins and bite
Every mouthfuYs a delight!
Aromatic, lustrous brown,
Comforter of king and clown,
All the flavours of the east
Bow before its malt and yeast!
Let no TV cook ignore
Tried and tested kitchen lore:
Marmite spread on buttered toast
Marks the perfect dinner host!
Jerome Betts

What's for dinner, my dear little man?
What's for dinner, my son?
Your feet and hands in a frying pan
And cooked till they are done.

His feet and hands were put in a pan
And his head stuck up on a spike,
And you know, you know how it goes
to show
That you can't do what you like.

Be good as gold and do as you're told,
And listen to your teacher,
For if you're bad then your mum and dad
Will cut you up and eat you.

Yes, you'll come to grief as they pick their teeth
And they suck your bones with their bread,
For a child that's wild is a child of sin
And a child of sin is dead.
John Whitworth

We'd a cook name Laetitia O'Reilly,
She could fry, she could roast, she could bake.
You could not praise her dinners too highly,
And she made the most marvellous cake.

But if! asked, 'Tish, what's for dinner?'
I'd not get a proper reply.
It set off some mischief within her.
And she'd say, 'It's invisible pie.'

Or 'Sheep's eggs with Mexican custard,'
Or 'Wait-and-see pudding, my dear.'
Or 'Dinosaur bones braised in custard
Washed down with a glass of green beer.'

Was she mad? Was she merely a sinner?
(It's a sin to be lying, they say).
But I no longer ask, 'What's for dinner?'
I've been put off from that, to this day.
Gerard Benson

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