I love to cook. I love to write. And this afternoon I have been doing both: casseroles, cakes and pickled chillis all scent my home, while I stir a bit here, write a bit there, dash up to the local shop because I’m out of bay leaves.
Cooking in the domestic sense may seem a chore, which it often is. But for me, it is the same act of creativity as writing. And the lovely stirring, and slicing, and tasting, and whipping, put me in a meditative state that lets my thoughts flow more easily for writing.
Thus today’s poem uses a wine metaphor, to go nicely with my coq au vin.
The wine has been allowed to stand, for the requisite time
It has been moved around too much in the last few months
Given space in which to breathe,
It is now developing an exquisite bouquet
A portent of the oral delights to come
The sediment has settled, and that nasty bitterness
Should stay on the bottom now
With careful pouring.