Lynne Rees

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Poem: January

on December 29, 2019

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new year poem

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I won a Stylish Blogger Award...

... from the inspiring Angela Hirst at the good soup . I've been following Angela's blog since I first started The Hungry Writer project in October 2010. She's a cook, writer, researcher and teacher who completed her PhD, Eating the Other, Levinas's Ethical Encounter , in 2005. She says this about herself : I love to write. It feels like dragging myself out of bed from a very very deep sleep each time I do it, but once I start, I don’t want to stop. I love it when people cut through the romantic illusions of what makes a writer and tell it as it is. And I love writers who love to cook and eat! Because blogging is all about learning and sharing The Stylish Blogger Award requires me to pass on the award to 15 other blogs I admire (and because, as Angela says, my blog stands at the edge of an almost dimensionless sea of food blogs there will be a few blogs that are rather more loosely linked to food) and to share 7 things about myself. So: I hated to eat when I

Poem ~ Grass, Hay

GRASS, HAY We grubbed out the apple trees, ploughed and weeded, and waited through the winter then we harrowed, seeded and rolled. I would never have guessed the beauty captured in the movement of long grass the sway and flow of it in the wind. And now, after mowing, before the first of three turns, I am entranced by the felt weight of it already turning gold. If you wish, you can add your own analogies here: effort, timing, patience, reward. Or, you can just stay with the grass watch the wood pigeons settle on the layered tresses searching for seeds. Close your eyes, breathe. The scent of it.

Lessons: Mam's Vegetable Soup

for Mammy It has never been in your nature to give up, not even at catering college when the head chef put you to peeling and chopping onions every day for weeks in a row. You were there to learn and you would take something from every task, every day in that professional kitchen; you would show yourself determined and willing, unable to be beaten. At home you astonished us, unwrapping the knives you kept sheathed in a drawer, that we were forbidden to touch, and transforming a topside of beef into ‘Olives’, a shoulder of lamb into Navarin . You were suddenly more than the wife and mother we knew: a woman carrying the noises and scents of other countries into our south Wales home, your fingers scented with garlic; al dente you said as if the words had always belonged to you. And here I am, forty years later, astonished again by this bowl of soup you carry into the conservatory and place before me in a patch of sunlight: the simplicity of parsnip, onion, carrot, potato, simm

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