Day 7 and the end of the WP Intro to Poetry challenge. ‘From the simple (butter on toast, a childhood-evoking bubblegum) to the more complex (insert your latest dinner-party triumph — or fiasco), flavor (when will Americans learn to spell correctly) occupies a crucial place in our memories, in our stories, and in our social interactions. Make today’s poem about one flavor and why it matters to you.’

 

In my impending dotage,

I’ve discovered cooking

and a penchant for adventure.

Found a recipe for squid stir-fry

and imagined a song of praise

from my goodly spouse.

 

‘Perfectly cooked squid,

on an eclectic bed of seasonal vegetables,

conjuring the exotic flavours and aromas of Asia’

the menu would have said.

 

The recipe read ‘green curry paste’

but what would they know;

one paste is as good as another, I thought,

(ever the egalitarian).

 

With what I imagined was a chefly flourish

I enhanced my imagined masterpiece

with a large blob of chilli paste,

hurled straight into the Hades of the wok.

 

Instantly, I was alerted to the error of my ways

by a nose like a running tap

and a total shut-down of my lungs

(except for the coughing bit).

 

My wife rushed to my rescue,

either concerned about my paroxysms

or what I might be coughing into the evening meal,

but alas she was swiftly felled by the same symptoms.

 

Every door and window open onto the winter chill,

ceiling fans gyrating dangerously at speeds hitherto unknown

and the Chernobyl wok banished to the outdoors,

we averted asphyxiation.

 

My previously baked sausage rolls

sated what was left of our mustard-gassed appetite.

 

They tasted a lot like humble pie.