Poet in the Kitchen – Moira Andrew

Monday, 3 January 2022

With the publication of this special book, Moira Andrew will be celebrating a remarkable achievement, 101 books published in a variety of genres. This is more than a collection of poetry, it is more than a selection of recipes. It is about the sharing and giving of food, the ritual of cooking and baking. It is about the pleasure and sometimes the conflict of sitting down to meals with a partner and with family, and it is in many respects an insight into one woman’s relationship with the food she prepares in her kitchen.

        Susan Jane Sims, editor and publisher

Pour a little poetry in a pan, heat over a gentle flame and you will find home somewhere between page and the plate. Moira and Jenny have together whipped up a delicious and cosy selection for body and mind. An absolute pleasure!

Susannah Violette, poet

 

ISBN: 978-1-909404-43-4  Retail price £10.00

 

Sample poems:

 

GEESE AND DAUGHTERS

 

It’s preferable to raise geese than daughters

(Chinese proverb)

 

Geese?  They strut

around the farmyard

sleek off-white

peering down

on their world from

haughty rooftop eyes.

 

Daughters?  They kiss

you good-night from

wet pink mouths, dance

in your arms to jazz

on the radio, stamp

in red-cheeked fury.

 

They grow up, phone

to tell you stuff,

make sure you’re OK,

bake scones for you,

buy you flowers

for the kitchen table.

 

Give me daughters

any time.  No doubt

geese are all very well

in their way, but

only those few who

lay golden eggs

 

merit a second thought.

Moira Andrew

 

A NICE CUP OF TEA


They tell me

I make a good cup of tea – 

not that I’d know

I don’t drink the stuff,

can’t stand the smell,

astringent, sour, thoroughly

unappetising.


I’ve brewed tea

first thing in the morning

for the men in my life – 

and for my daughter,

a compulsive tea-Jenny

(well-named)  She takes it

milky, by the bucketful.


I remember making tea

for my mother, bringing it

to her bedside, she in curlers

and blue hairnet.  She struggled

to sit up, Thanks dear, she said,

not knowing.  I had to tell her,

Mum … Dad died in the night.

 

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