written and posted by members of Lancashire Dead Good Poets' Society

Showing posts with label custard. Show all posts
Showing posts with label custard. Show all posts

Tuesday, 21 July 2020

Flour - Fred, the Flour Dredger

I hated Cookery at school. Nothing ever worked out for me. The shortcake made that morning, of which I was so proud, arrived home as a mass of crumbs in my tin. I came last in my Third Year exam because I’d forgotten my very necessary egg. On another occasion I was ridiculed by the horrid Domestic Science teacher for my choice of crumble – banana. It was the only fruit available to me and at least I’d made an effort.  It worked and tasted fine with custard. Looking back, I don’t think she, or any of my teachers, was aware that my mother was terminally ill and I was looking after myself and the family when my grandmother couldn’t be there. Perhaps, she might have been more kind to me had she known. When the ‘O’ Level options were announced, she geared me towards needlework, not that I needed any help with my choice.  If I learnt anything about cookery at school, it was the importance of a flour dredger. It was the one thing I was going to have when I had my own kitchen.  Many years passed before that happened and a flour dredger wasn’t included.

From somewhere along the years I’ve mastered enough cookery skills to feed myself properly when I lived alone and raise my family on a well-balanced diet and some home-baked treats,  Christmas cake, birthday cake, biscuits, flapjack and bread. There’s usually something tempting by the bread bin.

As Covid 19 hit, a national shortage of all important things happened overnight. It wasn’t just toilet rolls and domestic cleaning items with the basic food stuffs, flour became impossible to find.  I was in Dumfries & Galloway as lockdown commenced and found an abundance of various flours in Kirkcudbright’s Co-op. I bought one packet of bread flour and one packet of plain flour to bring home. We came back into self-isolation, relying on shopping deliveries or family members picking things up for us. I told everyone to look for flour and buy me any sort, also baking powder, which had vanished from stock lists everywhere. Flapjack became the usual home bake as porridge oats and syrup were still easily available. I even blitzed some oats to make a flour suitable for melt-in-the-mouth oaty cookies. They were so successful, that I’d like to believe the nasty Domestic Science ma’am would have a tiny word of praise.  She will be quite old by now, possibly shaking her flour dredger in the next world.

I have lots of flour now, of all types, even some organic rye flour, ideal for making almond shortcake, according to the blurb on the packet. I had to try out the recipe and it is delicious, as my disappearing waistline can confirm.

Ah, flour dredger, a Fred one from Homepride. I’ll put it on my birthday list.


My poem,  Flour Shortage

And on the Home Baking aisle, shelves are bare,
Devoid of flour that's usu'lly there.
No bread flour, no self-raising, no plain,
Not even that fancy rye or whole grain.
The entire selection is out of stock
Because too many people ran amok
Filling their trolleys with endless supplies
Of bread and milk and beans and frozen pies.
And flour.

I brought some home from Scotland, back in March.
Some plain and some wholemeal flour, low starch.
I bake a lot and I like my own bread
Otherwise, Hovis is perfect, instead.
I use up my flour then need some more,
I'm shopping on-line like never before.
No rice, no pasta, no cheese? Human greed
Means there's no provision for what I need,
No flour.

Pamela Winning 2020


Thanks for reading, keep baking and keep safe, Pam x



Saturday, 23 June 2012

How I remember it



By Ashley Lister

The first time the Dead Good Poets got together was in a college classroom on 29th January 2009.  I was there. I’ve written down the way things happened exactly so that there’s no danger of these recollections being affected by fading memory.


INT. DAY: Corridor outside THE CLASSROOM.
ELIZA DUSHKU and HERMIONE GRANGER are talking in the corridor. Both are holding flyers for a Dead Good Poets event. Both are wearing bikinis and their skin glistens with crystal-like raindrops from a recent downpour.

Eliza Dushku
[Holding up a flyer]
Hello, Hermione Granger. I’m looking for the room where Ashley is reading one of his wonderful poems.

Hermione Granger
[Glancing at the doorway for THE CLASSROOM. We see a glint in her eye that says, ‘If I can’t have him, then no one can have him.’
She pushes her own flyer behind her back so that ELIZA DUSHKU cannot see what she is holding.]
I do not know of any poetry reading or any wonderful, sexy poets called Ashley. But I’d heard they were doing a reading on the other side of Blackpool. He might be there.

Eliza Dushku
I do not believe you, Hermione Granger, and I think we should wrestle in custard until one of us proves to be the victorious winner of a girl-on-girl fight.

Hermione Granger
Very well, Eliza Dushku, although I should warn you that I intend to tear off your bikini before…


CUT TO:INT. DAY: Inside THE CLASSROOM.
The scene is busy and packed like Wembley Stadium ready for a JLS concert or a Nickleback concert or even a football match with lots and lots of fans. There are also some sandwiches.

David Cameron
[Shouting angrily at Ashley]
If you read that poem in front of these students, I shall leave here and form a government that screws over the country.

Ashley
[Heroically]
Don’t make me laugh, Cam-Moron. No one would vote for you.

David Cameron
[With obvious doubt]
Maybe not. But perhaps I’ll form a coalition government.

Ashley
[Suddenly worried – but still heroic and handsome]
You wouldn’t, would you?

CAMERON rushes from the room, chuckling maniacally and rubbing his hands together, and maybe stealing the pension book from an old person as he runs past them. And probably kicking a blind man’s guide dog.

ASHLEY looks like he is about to heroically pursue CAMERON and maybe do some bad-ass ninja moves on him.

Before ASHLEY can follow, DAVINA McCALL clutches ASHLEY’s arm and pushes a microphone in his face.

Davina McCall
Ashley – are we OK to have a quick chat with you live on camera before the inaugural event of the Dead Good Poets (who haven’t yet been named) begin their first reading?

Ashley
[Humbly]
Davina, whilst I’d love to chat with you about how brilliant I and the rest of the (as yet unnamed) poets are, don’t you want to do some interviews with Barack Obama, Oprah Winfrey, Paris Hilton, Johnny Depp and all the other celebrity guests that we’ve got attending here for our inaugural event?

Davina McCall
[Looking disappointed]
You’re right, Ashley. And I hear the Pope and Jesus are about to enter the room with Michael Jackson (who is still alive because this is all happening in 2009) so I should go and have a chat with them.

Ashley
Very well, Davina. And I shall take a chair and sit with the other brilliant and wonderful poets who are going to change the face of North West poetry in the UK. And I shall wait for this event to begin. And then I shall contribute in a small and very humble way. And I’m not even slightly tempted to go outside and see what those two women are squealing about in the corridor.


CUT TO: INT. DAY: Corridor outside THE CLASSROOM.
ELIZA DUSHKU and HERMIONE GRANGER are wrestling in a vat of thick yellow custard.

FIN