The cranberries are drenched in blood and tears,
the fridge has hummed so loudly,
she now has the sound
resonating in her skull,
and every time she twitches
the lights in her eyes fire up
just like when the door swings open.
He’s been stirring for hours.
Finely tuning the correct amount of meaty granules,
tip – pour, boil, pop,
the clang of the spoon sounds like
the ding of a triangle
in a hot and huffed out orchestra,
this triangle is more Bermuda,
missing in a sea of steaming pots, overflowing pans and wafting smoke,
and it’s sound is changing
as it shifts from metal, a ping,
to made of tarmac, a dulcet crack.
But it’s all worth it y’know,
now they’ve sat down,
placed warm plates on those new heat mats they got
for these certain types of
sitting down bowl of this and dish of that,
there’s no room for the peas,
there’s never room for the peas!
Pulling out chairs,
down from the attic,
one is a foldy type one,
other that plastic inflatable style, retro, born in the 70’s, resurrected in the 90’s.
Grandma is already asleep in her potatoes,
snoring into them
and reminding chef of that refrigerator hum,
BING – lights on,
just in time
to illuminate the other lights,
candles – gotta have candles,
one by one,
after messing about with matches,
clicking lighters repeatedly
finally lighting on the stove
(thank the god of appliances they have a gas not ‘leccy...)
And speaking of ‘leccy,
main lights stay on
big light rains down
despite the parade of candles,
in-between the mounds of food,
space for the candles
but never mind those poor
both chefs sigh relief,
breathe for the first time in 36 hours,
the longest labour,
Delia and Rhodes, the midwives, rested back on their shelf
and the self dissolves,
and it all,
all of it,
seems worth it in the end.
Except of course,
for the peas...
who curdle in a bowl of self-loathing and loneliness.
Spare a thought for them as holiday season comes upon us.
Don’t forget the peas!