Egg and Chips. Total comfort food. I wrote a poem about it. Lancashire.
Egg and Chips
Golden, thick cut, steaming hot,
potato pyramid of pleasure
ochre yolk, silken surround
tomatoed orange sludge of beans -
scalding hot so mind your tongue!
Coarse sea salt and white wine vinegar
sliced white bread with slabs of freezing butter.
my mum made egg and chips
driving night and driving rain
punctured tyre and tired toddler
worked-out burnt-out wage-slaves
wondering why we're still together
hold up - car crash, someone else's
Christmases ruined forever.
How will ours be?
There'll be a seat that isn't filled
and presents not to open.
Mum will cry in church
and we'll all pretend we haven't noticed.
If one of us had gone
would the other feel…relieved?
Wet, tired, cross; though the lights are on
No-one's fussing at the door.
Great mugs of tea with milk and sugar
With egg, chips and beans at the kitchen table
Someone's taken my mother
And left a changeling in her place
So hot, so crisp, so without challenge
Comfort that has nothing to prove
Ready and unquestioning
Fat-splashed offerings of love
Food that says "its alright,
Alright to be late, alright to live
Alright even to die when you need to,
it's alright, it is all right."
In the morning there'll be small beer and kippers
traditional mulled wine Christmas kept here
salmon smoked and sixpence pudding
night's feast a transport cafe dream
of white sliced bread mother's Aga's never seen
nothing will be said, no words are needed
it's alright. My mum made egg and chips.
DoingItMyself September 2007. My intellectual property!