I’ve made the Christmas pudding – not the sort
You boil for hours then douse in brandy and ignite
Which would be silly when
On Christmas day you’re like to be
Expiring from the heat:
A frozen one, cassata-like, with
Christmas-pudding fruit and lots of cream
And spice – you know?
And egg whites
Leaving yolks behind that make
A parfait – butterscotch, with lots more cream.
And mayonnaise – I’ve made that too,
Great grandma’s recipe. Not my
Great grandmas though, who
Shuffled off this mortal coil too long ago to be
Remembered in my recipe
Which puts and extra zing
In anything you use it in.
Twas Christmas when my grandma said
That pineapple and rhubarb didn’t mix –
Were poison: boom kaput!
My sisters tried it, naturally –
The children’s table, far enough away
From her all-seeing eye. I wonder now
If there was not enough for everyone to do the same and she
Was far too proud for honesty
Of that demeaning kind.
I had an aunt who spat the pips
Of passionfruit (with due decorum)
Lest her appendix should abhor ‘em,
The bottom line? I’ve ticked the list
A time or two
Which barely made a hole
In all there is to do.