A proper Sunday lunch
in a proper British hotel
in the northern part
of a northern isle
where the weather changes
at the drop
of a milliner’s creation.
-
Roast chicken
succulent and fair,
nested on
potatoes cooked in
the fat of wild duck
rendering the tater’s edges
copper and crunchy;
emerald cabbage leaves
steamed to the texture
of a Tom Brady pigskin;
Halloween-orange yarns
of spaghetti squash
as delicate
as the finest British wool;
chicken gravy
the burnished mahogany of
clubby wood paneling
poured from a proper
Ironstone pitcher
glistens
on carrots, rutabaga, parsnips
like verdure Royal Jewels;
and the British crown,
a popover
drizzled with salted butter and
thick honey
recalls the holiday meals
of a New England childhood.
-
Seated at finely laid tables
generations of families
dressed in ties, jackets,
elaborate hats
gossip, eat, nuzzle babies;
shy little boys in seersucker shorts
and ginger-headed girls
in frilly pink dresses
and tiny matching shoes
doted on by smiling servers
in black suits
with lapel pins,
the dining room din
at a proper British level,
in which to celebrate
family
food
Sunday.
#england #uk #sundayroast #properbritishfood
(at Newcastle upon Tyne)