The other day my sister told me that our Uncle Paddy, who owned a delicatessen in the far away land of our childhood, had a special party trick. Famous in the district for his cornish pasties, he always picked out the runts, the small, burnt ones, from the oven trays that held them in neat, hot rows. Paddy's party trick was that he used to take his false teeth out and use them to crimp the edges of the uncooked pasties! Whether he did this for his family, watching in disgust or amusement in the kitchen behind the shop, or at weekend pastry-making parties we shall never know, but my fond memories of devouring those spicy pastry parcels is forever ruined. Or maybe not. Perhaps Uncle Paddy crimped the edges of the large, plump pasties with his false teeth (did he use the upper or lower dentures I also wonder?) and left the small runts that my sister and I bought alone. I will never look at a pasty again without wondering how its edges were crimped and I'm writing this to warn you even though Uncle Paddy put his last pasty in the oven a very long time ago.
She thought it somewhat odd, but not enough to worry her in the days after she first met him, that he always wore a beret of some kind. He didn't take it off when he came into her house so she thought it was some religious observance. So she was curious to know if he took it off when he made love to her daughter for the first time, in her house, upstairs, and could hardly contain herself when she finally got her daughter alone. "Well, did he take it off?" He had, of course he had. She tried to keep a straight face, tried to imagine the circumstances, the conversation - how it was managed! Not the sex, that did not interest her at all, it was the bearing of the head (she presumed he was utterly bald) that fascinated her. She still wonders how he got past that particular part of intimacy. He still wears his hat in her house and she is constantly trying to fathom ways to take it off, preferably accidentally.
And now I must add your name to that roll call of memories engraved forever in my heart The pit pat of your steps, making your way to my bed in the middle of the night now gone. Buried with you. Sweet babe. Four footed love. Beloved and betrothed by nature. Sweet union of man and beast. No better friend. No better love.
And in the middle of the night my arms will reach to cradle you To run my fingers through your fur Reassurance that all is well with the world That your warm body against mine Will fend off the terrors of the night
The other day my sister told me that our Uncle Paddy, who owned a delicatessen in the far away land of our childhood, had a special party trick. Famous in the district for his cornish pasties, he always picked out the runts, the small, burnt ones, from the oven trays that held them in neat, hot rows. Paddy's party trick was that he used to take his false teeth out and use them to crimp the edges of the uncooked pasties! Whether he did this for his family, watching in disgust or amusement in the kitchen behind the shop, or at weekend pastry-making parties we shall never know, but my fond memories of devouring those spicy pastry parcels is forever ruined. Or maybe not. Perhaps Uncle Paddy crimped the edges of the large, plump pasties with his false teeth (did he use the upper or lower dentures I also wonder?) and left the small runts that my sister and I bought alone. I will never look at a pasty again without wondering how its edges were crimped and I'm writing this to warn you even though Uncle Paddy put his last pasty in the oven a very long time ago.
ReplyDeleteShe thought it somewhat odd, but not enough to worry her in the days after she first met him, that he always wore a beret of some kind. He didn't take it off when he came into her house so she thought it was some religious observance. So she was curious to know if he took it off when he made love to her daughter for the first time, in her house, upstairs, and could hardly contain herself when she finally got her daughter alone. "Well, did he take it off?" He had, of course he had. She tried to keep a straight face, tried to imagine the circumstances, the conversation - how it was managed! Not the sex, that did not interest her at all, it was the bearing of the head (she presumed he was utterly bald) that fascinated her. She still wonders how he got past that particular part of intimacy. He still wears his hat in her house and she is constantly trying to fathom ways to take it off, preferably accidentally.
ReplyDeleteI think the beret is penance for the teeth, maybe.
ReplyDeleteA Poem For Mr Muff
ReplyDeleteAnd now I must add your name to that roll call
of memories engraved forever in my heart
The pit pat of your steps, making your way
to my bed in the middle of the night
now gone. Buried with you. Sweet babe. Four footed love.
Beloved and betrothed by nature. Sweet union of man and beast.
No better friend. No better love.
And in the middle of the night my arms will reach to cradle you
To run my fingers through your fur
Reassurance that all is well with the world
That your warm body against mine
Will fend off the terrors of the night