Heinz Cream of Tomato, served piping hot with grated Cheddar cheese on top and dry toast to tear up and float in it. My Grampee would not eat it any other way, and neither would I. The delightful bright green soup we were served in a hotel in Germany’s Black Forest, which my broccoli hating young sons scoffed up quickly. Yes, it was Broccoli, we had bribed the waiter not to tell them. My homemade chicken soup, made to a recipe originally from Malta (Grampee’s homeland). One of our now adult sons, realising he was not recovering well from a bad bout of Covid drove for 2 hours to get home and have some. Apparently it’s a magical cure for all ills. On a cold day I love Miso Soup with seaweed – so warming! A find in recent years has been Jamaican Chickpea and Squash soup which is very tasty and filling. Soup is not a huge part of our family diet, but it is important to us and to me .
Merry eyes, wicked smile, teller of tales. Grandfather mine, I would sit on your knee hear of Susan, the Mule that liked to kick officers and saved you on a mountain pass. How you were called the Prince of Baghdad by your comrades and of meeting real Princes in India. Self taught, you bought me Maths books to read with you taught me poetry squeezed me into your invalid carriage and drove to expensive French restaurants for lunch. Your love of life and learning and food is mine, forever.
This poem appeared here last year, but I want to share it again! It describes our own little Christmas Eve tradition.
Many years ago, I would leave the bulk of the Christmas baking until Christmas Eve, and have an all day marathon with my two little boys. By the time Daddy came home from work, they were happy and above all tired. Not over excited at all, so sleep came easy to them and Father Christmas could drink his Calvados, eat his mince pie and fill those stockings.
The mess is a family joke –when they were young, somehow the house on Christmas Eve was littered with floury handprints…
Alas, last year and this year someone is elsewhere and baby bro (all 6 foot of him) is baking alone……
Waking up with Nanny in her soft double bed the room white and pink with swans and roses Sunday morning and you would bring milky tea Hot in her best rose gold china cup and saucers we would sip, little fingers raised as you left Before we too rose
Later, your Saturday visits to our house bringing a bounty of colourful comics to read And a secret pocket of sweets, for Mum not to see How my brothers and I took you for granted Never noticed the shining love in your eyes
Your hand grasping mine in supplication As they wheeled you, protesting to surgery from which you did not return, your faltering loving heart finally stopping Under the anaesthetists care