WednesdayIII August

Anyone for Treacle Tart?

The cook books all have a very traditional,
tried and tested, dare we say staid?
English recipe,
called treacle tart:

A prince amongst pies.
Latticed perfection,
Syrup'd nectar, hustler of honeyed sighs.

Beloved by old maids and school boys alike.
The ingredients rarely vary.
Even so: everybody’s tart’s different.

The kitchen:
Little red and white check curtains.
An open cottage window.
Picturesque mid-Summer view.
Complete with:
Hay-dusty sun beams.
Cropped fields and buzzy, green hedges.
All rough hewn oak, terracota tiles and enamel.
Very rustic.
Pie ready.
Ingredients wait for the whip and mix
Of the spatula and electronic hand whisk.

The cook's on the boil.
Wildly mixing the familiar dish.
Wooden spoon in firm, experienced grip.
Getting a little more confident with the spice.
Flirting with a slight, lemony twist;
a barely there tarty kick.
Golden, syrupy promises: slip across the cookbook's page.
Sugary anticipation: wets hungry lips.
Sacchrine sensations beckon: treacle slick.
All the spoons are out, hair's flying, apron's akimbo.....
The cook's really getting into this.


Padding,
Pounding,
Kneading,
Beating,
And finally
Rolling.

The exhausted pastry hits the dish.
Its buttery glow waits for treacle to flow.
It's poured: sweet and achingly slow.
Leaving the bowl to lick.

The oven’s warm, spicy air,
Rises and warps the senses
Pie shaped images drift.
The cream's chilling in the fridge:
Crown to a tart's hot glory.

Finally it comes,
With all the trimmings,
The spoon dips and rises.
Hot and rich.