Pickled Onions
They don't taste the same
as the ones that filled
those big jars which sat
in a cupboard serving out
the four week wait.
My mouth still craves
for that first crisp bite,
the tangy, sweet release
of spicy vinegar as my teeth
cut through the tightly wound
layers, the sharp burst
of pleasure, the lingering
after-taste.
Nowadays pickled onions,
like those at the back
of my fridge, look anemic,
floating in their pale brine.
They're soft and soggy.
Oh how I long for
the pickled onions my Nan
used to make.
It was a ritual every spring.
The jars would be retrieved
from the shed and washed,
a big bag of onions opened
and spread out
on the kitchen table to be
peeled and soaked.
Malt vinegar bubbled
its pungent breath from a pot
somersaulting peppercorns
and cloves through its slow churn.
I would help load the jars with
onions before Nan
would pour the hot vinegar
into each packed jar.
Then the wait,
each passing week pestered by
a …..‘are they ready yet ?’
They were better than candy
for me, a flavor that went way
beyond taste and deep
into something shared
between us, a love
that found its way to pickle
a little of itself every year
of my childhood.
Copyright © Paul Willason | Year Posted 2024
Post Comments
Poetrysoup is an environment of encouragement and growth so only provide specific positive comments that indicate what you appreciate about the poem. Negative comments will result your account being banned.
Please
Login
to post a comment