PapasWorld is the blog of a geezer from the North of England who likes his grub.
Ode To Food
I know where I’d rather, be today,
Stood in a kitchen, work my own way.
Chopping a steak, frying a chip,
Shouting out orders, shoot from the hip.
Flambee a sweet, sautee a pear,
Make a tart tatin, venison I’d sear.
A rhubarb puree, a thick pork steak,
Make an omelette, and eggs I’d break.
A small juicy bird, in the oven to roast,
I’d even consider, making some toast.
From a sweet chilli dip and tortilla wrap,
Fajitas so fine, they’ll make you clap.
A big rabbit stew with plump suet dumplings,
Or a thick hearty soup made with seasonal pumpkins.
Small paper pancakes and a sweet plum sauce,
Crisy duck, shredded fine, not too coarse.
A joint of beef, roast in the oven,
Hubble and bubble like a mad witches coven.
Yorkshire puds, a favourite staple,
What better on pancakes than sauce made of maple.
A cheesy leek flan, a salad side,
Samphire on the beach, dodging the tide.
Pan-fried sea bass, a fish so fine,
Always at its best when caught on the line.
Cauliflower cheese, a gratin or two,
Pomme puree, enough for two.
There’s nothing better than a hug at night,
From a bowl of risotto, it just feels right.
A redcurrant jus, a mint vinaigrette,
Olive oil dressing, a jello just set.
Pasta salad, ingredients so fresh,
Herb and spice, just seem to mesh.
Sat on a beach, drinking some wine,
Eating a grape, straight from the vine.
In a small spanish bar, munching on tapas,
Banging a coconut, like a deranged caracus.
Eating a fig, drizzled with honey,
Corned Beef and beetroot, right on the money.
Next days hash, or bubble and squeek,
Deep-fried Mars bar, occasional treat.
A nice rack of lamb, encrusted with herbs,
Celeriac mash, and a gravy I’d serve.
Bangers and mash, french onion soup,
Outside dining, serve to the troops.
Molecular gastro, onomy,
Don’t see the sense, it’s all food to me.
Wrap it in meat, drop in the fryer,
That’s Scotch you know, nothing finer.
Thick door-wedge bacon butties,
Peanut butter with texture like putty.
Apple pie and vanilla, lots of ice cream,
Peas and mint make such a great team.
Turkey at Xmas and lamb at Easter,
Don’t forget to turn, properly baste her.
Fish and chips, down by the beach,
The art of deep-frying is not hard to teach.
Yes it’s fair to say, as I’m sat behind a desk,
My mind is else where, to that of a chef.
You’re on my mind whatever my mood,
O glorious senses, O glorious food.