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Dripping
No healthy oils
but beef dripping kept
solid in a white enamel
can with a lid
in a cupboard under
the oven. Reused until
too dark and heavy
with sediments,
the dregs flavored
the best chips.
Mothers carried
the war year's frugal habits
into the fifties and so
it was with mine.
My Mum could make
a feast out of almost nothing
and gave little
to the bin.
There was an observed
formality for meals,
all of us had to sit
at the table, elbows
at the side and recite
the customary grace.
No getting up until excused,
no talking with your mouth
full, no reaching across
someone else's plate,
every request had to be
prefaced or end
with a ‘please’.
Something of the sacred
gave dignity to the rituals
of preparation
and consumption of food.
It wore the presence
of a gift. Not sure if today's
abundance is better
or worse - no matter -
as we eat whatever
and whenever in haste,
plugged in and sedated
by a mind-numbing choice,
our progress is measured
in waste.
Copyright ©
Paul Willason
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