More fit to nibble than to gnaw But no less tasty, cooked or raw
Both Brian Allgar and Dorothy Pope mourned the passing of Fuller’s Walnut Cake, and Richard McCarthy submitted a rousing tribute to mutton in the style of Swinburne. All three deserve a commendation as do David Silverman, Philip Machin, Alanna Blake, Sylvia Fairley and Barbara Smoker. The prize-winners, printed below, are rewarded with £30 apiece. This week’s bonus fiver belongs to Basil Ransome-Davies.Basil Ransome-Davies We shook our fists at Hitler when the Nazi bombers came Like an airborne twentieth-century armada To blast some of our cities to a hell of smoke and flame, But we had a secret weapon in our larder.
It was a taste sensation. Churchill couldn’t get enough. He wolfed it down with gourmandising passion. Their Majesties announced that, though they both adored the stuff, They properly observed their wartime ration.
You could slice it like salami; you could stuff it in a roll; You could fry it as a batter-coated rissole; You could fill a pie-crust with it; there was so much to extol In a meatloaf that was free of bone and gristle.
Our thanks for it went to the Yanks — yes, good old Uncle Sam Supplied the food that lifted hearts in Blighty. Let’s hear it for the breakfast/dinner/tea of champions — Spam, So versatile, and pink as auntie’s nightie.
John Whitworth I sing the joys of bloater paste On dripping rounds of buttered toast. Let not a morsel go to waste For you’re the spread I love the most.
In wet and windy days of yore I sought a place around the fire I sought your comfort more and more Of bloater taste I’d never tire.
Bring me my shards of buttered bliss And greasy little paws to grip ’em Let unbelievers take the piss. We are the acolytes of Shippam,
I burn my nightlight at both ends. What better bliss than this, the taste Of fish among my childhood friends, Of sterling Shippam’s bloater paste?
George Simmers One summer, in our gang, the must-have sweets Were long white cylinders with bright red tips Held in (we thought) sophisticated grips, Or hanging Bogart-style from tough-guy lips, Or waved near mouths shaped like a showy kiss. To us they seemed necessities, not treats. Sweet cigarettes! There was a sort of bliss In having them, not eating (though you’d munch The chalky stuff before going home to lunch). The things are not for sale, I’d guess, today, When smoking’s universally abhorred. Well, did they take us to the cancer ward? For others in the gang, I cannot say. But I’d a grandfather who puffed and gasped And wheezed and coughed incessantly and rasped And croaked. I’ve never smoked.
G.M. Davis Yes, I remember sandwich spread, That instant butty filling Designed to partner white sliced bread, A bargain at a shilling.
What were those multicoloured bits That made it look like vomit? I didn’t care. It blew my wits. It hit me like a comet.
The jar sat on a kitchen shelf, A little yellow idol. I’d raid it like a wicked elf. My appetite was tidal.
A pound is now the least you’ll pay; It’s still worth every penny. I hoard it wholesale, come the day When grocers haven’t any.
Chris O’Carroll A calf’s foot simmers. Rich, dark beef-broth scent Portends a treat compounded equally Of jiggly fun and robust nourishment, A dainty whose distinctive recipe Blends bovine collagen, which cools to gel, With citrus brightness (lemon juice and zest), Sugar and spices, egg white, crushed eggshell And wine — although some cooks say brandy’s best. The taste buds quiver in anticipation As calf’s foot jelly quivers in the bowl, A glistening, translucent combination Of unlike parts in an ambrosial whole, A Manichean savoury-sweet treasure Of wobbly substance fraught with solid pleasure.
Robert Conquest wrote a limerick that begins: ‘When Gauguin was visiting Fiji’. Your next challenge is to submit a limerick featuring an artist and destination of your choice. Please email entries (up to three each) to lucy@spectator.co.uk by midday on 9 September.
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