Cooking up a Sunday storm to kiss goodbye to Autumn.

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It never hovers long does Autumn, it sweeps in; on a Poppins like wind. When kites shimmy and spin on translucent threads. Winds whip and tousle unsuspecting children’s heads. They huff and blow like the bad wolf once did, stripping summer from plants and trees. A squall of winds screech as they undress limbs and bend boughs till they break; bringing gardeners to their knees.

Autumnal lawns are dressed in luscious shades of gold and red. Acorns and nuts are shaken free in time for creatures to harvest. Rains pummel the earth as colours slip from green to burnished orange and browns. Birds wait to catch fat worms, as they pop up from the sodden earth, pink and plump ripe for the feast.

Gardens give up their bounty, Root veg for soups and hearty stews, sustenance to keep out the chill. Autumn stocks our larders with hedge picked fruit, from bramble berries to rosehip and sloes. A new darkness crawls across the face of the evening clock … as thick as a London smog.

Long walks kicking leaves and collecting cones, puddle jumps, pink the cheeks of carefree folk. Kids join the huddle before a snapping fire, where tales of spook get told. Eyes soon droop, as kicking leaves and conker fights take their toll.

But no sooner it has arrived it’s time to go, it’s job done for another year. Now, we make ready for morning frosts and white sparkling roofs, as we Kiss another Autumn goodbye.

photo my own.

Sweet potato & carrots lightly spiced Autumn  soup.

My own photo.

Ingredients.

6 large carrots cut in four length-ways.

4. Medium sweet potatoes again cut lengthways. (about the size of the carrots)

I large onion

4 oz of split soaked red lentils

A head of garlic

3 pints of stock vegetable or Chicken

One large potato cubed.

Spices and condiments. All 1/2 teaspoon. Turmeric, red chilli flakes, ground cardamom, flaked sea salt, black freshly ground pepper, ginger grated or ground, cayenne pepper, a tablespoon of olive oil, a half stick of butter.

To garnish, either kale or Cavallo Nero de-stalked and shredded. A splash of soy, olive oil and a half teaspoon of flaked salt, to barely coat. one tablespoon of sesame seeds.

Optional: garnish. Crumbled feta cheese and a sprinkle of ground red peppercorn.


Roast on a baking tray or large shallow pan with everything on the tray coated in olive oil.
Carrots, sweet potato, garlic slices.

Gently fry:
onion Turmeric, ginger ground cardamom, cayenne pepper, until onion is translucent.

Pour fresh chicken or veg stock in a crockpot with ground salt and pepper and one cubed potato and 4oz red split lentils (soaked) and cook on med heat until the potato falls apart.



When the onions are translucent, add to the cooking liquid in the crockpot on top of the stove. and add the tray of veg soft from the oven breaking up the veg as you add it. Once stew-like add the butter and more water if required, it needs to be quite thick. Put the crockpot in the already hot oven. Cook low, 125°c in the oven for an hour.
Add red chilli flakes blitz with a stick blender add more liquid if needed.

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Toss the shredded greens in flaked salt and a tiny coating of combined olive oil, soy and sesame oil, ( do not soak) Then add enough to barely coat the shredded stalkless Cavalo Nero. Put on a baking tray 150°f (not on fan cook, or it will blow away as it dries out) ten mins should have it dehydrated.
Toast sesame seeds in a dry pan and put to one side.
Watch the Nero carefully as soon as crisp put in a bowl sprinkle the sesame seeds over and use to garnish the soup. Serve with hunks of warm buttered bread.

It is so ludicrously warming and tasty you will want make batches to freeze.

Do any of you have a favourite comforting seasonal food? I would love to read about it in the comments.

A little More Than Poetry Is Required To Make It Good

My goodness I am in awe. I can, get my brain around a poem, deliver an artistic > cough < free write, a passable rhyming piece, or a limerick. But the poetry I read over at Colleen Cheeseborough’s place, this is so far away from that.

I penned a rhyme to let the true poets know what I think of their work. And below is none of the following. Types of Poetry.

Tanka. … Haiku. … Cleve … limmerick. … lyrical poem. … narrative poem. … ode. … sonnet. … Ballad. … Acrostic. … A double Enneade. … these are just some forms that I can list, though there are many more I have yet to find.

I bow before you all,
Composers of life,
Love and lament.
Winding words with
Gold-leaf, painting
Architectural prose,
Like attempting
To cement back on
The Sphinxes nose.

How poor my attempt,

too ashamed am I to lay it here,

discarded like Vincent’s ear.

But yet I parry the expected blows

from fencer’s cries and a Sphynxes nose,

for who am I to try?

And so in this place I walk away,

I concede defeat

touché.

When you read sophisticated Poetry or verse, do you think … best concede defeat? Answers or comments down below please, I love to chat.

Ellen’s intention is to Persevere.

To make it through this year, as I am determined to do. I will strive to fight. The statement to show how I will get to the final day of this extraordinary year, Is “Ellen, Perseveres.” That is my intention.

Wearing an anti covid-19 mask,

I vow to set myself the task

that each day from now until then.

I will rise above the parapet

and repeat it time and again,

until it rings in my ears

and all can see,

she persevere’s.

The last few months I have folded myself into a the smallest space. Closed my eyes and hid, I have begun to surrender to the empty. I feel me fade away as if a smudged pencil sketch. My shape is real enough, my face still there. The essence of me is fading … it feels like whisps, or steam from a cup of tea on a cold day. Not quite sure you saw it slipping silently away. The person that is left is no longer curious enough to find out. So it will be a case of finding … me.

My intention is to learn something new. Today, I signed up to an online class. Together, we the group, will learn how to write and produce an audio play, with the Theatre Royal in Bury St Edmunds. I have also pledged to find myself within the words I write. To see it through, to excel the best way I can. Lock down and health issues have taken their toll, but not any more. Ellen will come through, As I Pledge to persevere.

I want to thank my blogging friend who encouraged me to set an intention and commit to it. https://youcanalwaysstartnow.wordpress.com/2020/09/14/setting-an-intention/

“If you were to chose a word to help you through the last four months, to inspire or motivate what would it be and why?” leave it in the comments I would love to chat.

Valentines 2020 Still giving.

Twisted sticks and grasses against a pinked Victorian wall.

No words were then needed, its simple shape said it all.

It’s weathered all the seasonal storms bashed against the brick,

Like our lives together, we hang on through thin and thick.

Our hearts won’t be weakened they will stay the test of time,

Joined in our forever, making our own sun, shine.

We are changing the colour of the house, and The husband got to the wall with my homemade heart and noticed, how bits and pieces had fared pretty well during this disheveled year.

Now, I am not a cutty sewy person, and the want to craft passed me by. So for me to put something together that he liked enough to still notice months later, is an exceptional feat. It is also our anniversary soon. These are the reasons for my poetic post. Sometimes it is the triffles that expresses our feelings the loudest.

Have you ever stepped out of the norm? to show how you feel. If so pop it in the comments, I would love to read and reply.

Thank you to Esme for sharing my link on her link sharing page press https://esmesalon.com/131-senior-salon/ the link to see many more or to join the fun and add yours

My Tits Looked At My Bottom.

My Tits live in a nest hidden in a tree,
I like to watch them daily
They also take a peep at me.

They caught sight of my bottom
when I stepped upon my skirt
I tripped and heard them chortle
my pride was really heart.




My Tits looked at my bottom
and I will never be the same
I know I heard the Raven
Calling out my name.

The Raven told the Robin
that he saw my bum
The Robin told the Lark
that all the birds should come.

They tapped beaks on the window,
One even shared his worm.
It was like being on the telly,
I felt my body squirm.

The Tits shall not get any supper
or a lardy meal-worm for desert
I believe it’s a fitting punishment
for my pride being sorely hurt.




I was the WINNER! 

Thank you Chelsea Owens for the challenge the weekly hilarity contest press the link to read more. PRESS HERE

Thanks to Pixaby.com for use of photos.

Chelsea said it must be clean and fun … “Did my Poem hit the spot?” answers in the comments I love when you twitter back too.


Hoaxes And Angry Penguins

GO HERE To read about the Hoax, And to see the picture source.

Follow this link to join in or read other responses to the terrible poetry competition.

The Weekly Terrible Poetry Contest 2/29 – 3/6/2020

Beneath is The Sacrilege of mixing Rebecca Hilare Belloc With WH Auden.

The Funeral.

Stop the clocks cut off the telephone.

Prevent the dog barking

With a juicy bone.

A trick that everyone abhors

In little girls is slamming doors.

Silence the piano

With a muffled drum.

Slap that girl on the bum.

Bring out the coffin

Let the mourners come.

She would deliberately go

Slam the door like billy-ho.

To make her uncle Jacob start

She wasn’t really bad at heart.

He was my north my South

East and West.

My working week

My Sunday rest.

The funeral sermon

(Which was long

And followed by

a sacred song)

I thought love

Would last

Forever

I was

Wrong.

My Poetic explanation of The Great Austrailian Literrary Hoax.

A Sister wrote of her brothers passing

She sent his poetry for an editor to peruse

Not knowing the lot was a terrible ruse.

The Penguins were angry, who was the culprit

The Catholic church roared from the pulpit.

It bought down the wrath of the literary giant

When the hoax was revealed they became silent.

They had penned a collection of modernist rhyme

They made up a sister and gave him not much time.

Duplicitously they staged Ern’s demise, Graves disease

Both James McAuley and and Harold Stewart did freeze,

When eventually Ern Malley became more famous than they

His literary prowess like the phoenix raises its head still today.

Do follow the link If you do not know the story Chelsea Anne Owens explains it simply.

As the badge of honour suggests it was indeed a successful attempt at produduce a poem using the Hoaxers formulation .

Did I succeed? in my mix, to deliver the most terrible poem in your eyes? leave me a comment and I will get right back.

An Awful Anniversary Assembly.

Sixty years, well here’s to it, I raise a glass; into it, I spit.

Jerk my head to call him near, passed his glass feigned a cheer.

He swallowed with greed; saliva and all. I curl my lip; soon he’ll fall.

A drunk, a bully full of hate; tonight, they will see his colours

spread out on the dinner plate. I served tripe and jellied eels.

This food, both banal and grey; like him, had seen a better day.

I smile at those around my cloth. His cronies and the hangers-on

those that doff their cap, those that think him a super chap.

“Please sit” I cry. Having previously dressed his tripe

with little crushed garlic to disguise the arsenic’s taste.

It was with finality he gorged in ungentlemanly haste.

Today my cynical response to the terrible poetry prompt. It takes me to a sixtieth Anniversary gathering. I hope you enjoy. Please leave me a comment I simply love to talk.

The Weekly Terrible Poetry Contest 2/22 – 2/28/2020
https://chelseaannowens.com/2020/02/29/the-weekly-terrible-poetry-contest-2-29-3-6-2020/

Nothing. Rag Tag Daily Prompt.

To read or visit other responses press This “empty”

2020-01-16 101511055064..jpeg

Nothing, an empty desk, a crowded head,

Rumpled sheets on an empty bed.

A void, a hole, another missed goal.

A black cloud in a sunny space,

 A blank look, on an expressionless face.

An empty cupboard, an empty purse,

Hollow meannings in a hollow verse.

No energy to pick up my pen,

To use it for judging men.

An empty shell,

Nothing left

Just me,

Bereft.

 

A burst of verse, in response to the prompt. First I had to feel the word, have empathy, then … if I was nothing … what would I be? I am fortunately, not nothing. But did you like what I penned, was it fit for purpose? Let me know in the comments. I am full of chat. 😆😉