Why? PoetsPub 2021 Achievement Hunter Challenge

Achievement #16: Why?

Why?

Why is it always me?

That should be obvious my boy, it is easy to see.

You are the eldest little flea.

And like me, you know grandma's recipe.

I shrug my shoulders; mum has an answer to every plea.

Eight large pieces of fish, fresh Bass from the sea.

Now hurry, off to the wharf little pea.

Your father is expecting this for tea.

Shall I also pick fresh Parsley and Tyne, its flavour is the key.

That would be good it will leave these tired hands of mine free.

If you wish I could also prepare the breadcrumbs, for a small fee.

With a smile, she said off, anymore cheek and you will be over my knee.

It was just another wasted plea.

It may seem odd, but we dried the breadcrumbs in the garden where it was sunny.

We waited impatiently until they were all crispy and crunchy.

When ready we mixed them with the Parsley.

When the time was right, we added the Tyne.

Mum added water, milk, and treacle-like rum to a bowl, measured by eye.

Using her hands, she wove all the ingredients together, whilst humming her favourite tune.

She added a pinch of this and a pinch of that and asked, is that right grannie.

Her grannie had been dead for years, killed by diphtheria.

It was a ritual mum said she was always watching over the family.

And that she would haunt her if she did something wrong, you see.

I think she was trying to scare me, to prevent me from being naughty.

I guess it worked, for the worst thing I did was steal apples to sell them for a penny.

When this was all done, it was religiously placed in a basket and hung in our Bay tree.

It was said to absorb its pollen, which helped it mature more naturally.

I would stand downwind and let the intoxicating smell waft over me.

To this day, one tiny sip of rum, and I am back under that tree.

Side by side, four slices of Bass were laid out on a baking tray.

With a prayer of thanks, the basket was brought from the tree.

Followed by a procession of little kiddies, singing its praises.

There were quite a few in our family.

Mum used a spoon, which was hewn from a branch of that Bay Tree.

Another ritual, the spoon, had been carved by one of our great granddaddies.

The slices were buried beneath a mountain of stuffing patties.

It was then coated with scented wild bee honey.

Sprinkled with walnuts, almonds and herbs that stuck in the honey.

The remaining Sea Bass was laid crisscross atop the honied mountains.

When daddy came home, he placed the huge tray onto the baking stones.

The mountain was now surrounded by vegetable and fruit islands.

Dad never got home from the fields until it was dark but was always full of surprises.

He soon had the islands swimming in an ocean of rum, molasses, and more honey.

He waved us all back and set the tray alight, and into the air flames, did fly.

It was not long before the burning spices were making us cry.

After what felt like an hour, but was only minutes, dad threw a blanket over the tray.

The time was nearing to feed the family.

First things first, dad took a cup of hot rum sauce from the tray.

His toast, as always, was to mother and family.

It may well be needless to say, but I'm going to all the same, a wonderful time was had by all.

F/N: I was full of trepidation at the prospect of writing a poem about a recipe, with or without fish and may have got carried away or found a new vocation as a chef.

I'll leave it with your discerning minds to determine if this is fact or fiction, but whatever your conclusion is, I'm sure you will agree it is an awesome fish recipe, that could only have been handed down from generation to generation.