Express Specials

Pies and Toads

VERY SPECIAL TO THE LITERARY EXPRESS

First there were sausage pies in Aberdeen,
the edges of the pie crusts Presbyterian
without adornment, perfect flaking circles.

I ate them at Great-Uncle Alexanderโ€™s,
kept back from enlistment as the youngest brother,
the one without the gift of the gab

who, asked to break bad news of a death
on the railways tactfully without undue pain,
said โ€œMother, youโ€™ll not be seeing Father again.โ€

After pies there was a visit to the garden
to see the toad, huge, motionless and sullen,
but not from a diet of sausage pie.

I was prompted to be as courageous
as Great-Uncle Willie killed at Arras
and kneel down and with both hands pick up the toad

moving Great-Uncle Alec to eloquence;
โ€œYour Auntie Bella has often said
that thereโ€™s a jewel in the centre of its head.โ€

I learnt to make pies myself under the care
and protection of the state when my father
had neglected to pay a number of school bills.

The home used to be a hunting lodge of King Charles.
I was treated like royalty, hidden from girls
and boys, whoโ€™d become no longer girls or boys,

in a kitchen where I rubbed flour and fat
into lumps as large as toads, rolled them out
for a filling of onion and corned beef.

The cook told me that I had the temperament,
an eye for detail and the right equipment,
the dry, cold hands of a pastry chef or hangman.

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1 reply »

  1. Very nice to read this.. I’d like to check it out that recent one… Sound great and very particular.

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