I sat on the sofa, pleasantly knackered after providing some minor service for my helpmeet. The door opened and I was handed a deliciously smelling plate: a couple of cooked chicken livers transfixed with toothpicks. Ah...
Quickly they were a memory, a memory that resonates. Chicken has been a barometer of gustatory wellbeing for me over the years. Immediately after the war it was an unimaginable luxury, appearing once a year only at Christmas. Turkey? Only aristocrats and black-market criminals ate that.
For ten years chicken retained its luxury status but then came the cheap, battery-reared corpse and my interest waned. "Food for invalids," I told my ma-in-law.
Chicken staged a small comeback in the USA when a KFC bucket, accompanied by a $5 jug of beer, formed an epilogue to evenings spent watching the Pittsburgh Jugoslav Club play softball. Back in the UK the pap continued.
I was re-converted in France by a Poulet de Bresse which cost many euros. I realised flavour is available but it doesn’t come with a Tesco Value label. It costs. That aforementioned evening we ate the livers' surroundings, roasted, and VR let me strip the skin off the remainder and chew. Barometer now set Fair.
Poetry extract, chosen not knowing the author, honouring Joe Hyam.
I wish I were a
And I could pick off the coconuts with my nose,
But, oh, I am not,
But I'm a cockroach
And I'm a waterbug,
I can crawl around and hide behind the sink.
Reasons why. Two good, if conflicting, rules; be unexpected (nose instead of trunk), be straightforward if it elaborates the line (behind the sink). And grab attention - here by mispronouncing elephant. A child speaking?
Anon. (Hey, I was fooled too.)