Hello there,
It's Mandy here.
I'd like to read you a poem from my collection Old Blue Car.
And this one is called Out Went Macaroons.
When I was twelve and fat,
My mother stopped baking.
Out went macaroons and butter sinking slowly through hot scones.
Out went rock buns with their shy request for half an egg.
In came Ravita's.
Dry as dead men's ashes In came skimmed milk.
Measured in a 20 calorie jug.
Behind closed doors,
Soft bags of ground almonds rubbed shoulders with bottles of cochineal.
Shelves were sticky with the pink rings of glacé cherry tubs.
Imminent with the black rattle of cake tins.
Grease-proof sheets still jammed the drawer.
But my mother's back was turned.
Fearing my appetite she went shop-bought hid wagon wheels in the spare room wardrobe.
I stole them often.
Ept whole packets in one go To keep the crime clean.
Her cookbooks,
Plump with cuttings,
Look modest on my shelf.
Her inked instructions are neat and strict.
Bake in deep tin,
It rises.
Heat,
But do not boil.
Despite my broken waistline,
These days I bake often.
Finding her in the sweet density of marzipan the bitter puff of burnt currants.
