February 9, 2014

 

 

‘Let’s throw the pots out of the window’

was the favourite, familiar refrain,

of my future Mother in law,

when last at the table, we did remain.

 

How I loved those Sunday dinners

with her roast beef and apple pie.

She’d shout of hubby to carve the meat;

he would smile with a twinkle in his eye.

 

The aroma as he entered her kitchen,

drifted into the dining room nearby.

where I’d obligingly laid the table,

which she’d checked with an exacting eye.

 

We shared the job of carrying the tureens,

containing the vegetables, steaming hot,

and then the piece d’ resistance arrived,

and into our seats we immediately shot.

 

We tucked in, enjoying each mouthful,

and became so full, we did gasp and sigh.

After which, she’d give me the choice,

of whether I wanted to wash or dry!

 

We would set the world to rights;

she made washing dishes fun.

And made me feel I was the one,

that she wanted for her son.

 

My next job was to return the silverware,

to the correct boxes in the welsh dresser,

as she summoned her son to pour the brandy,

whilst she made the coffee, bless her.

 

There was no sign of a dishwasher.

I know she would think it a scream

to watch this generation rinse plates,

and then stack them into a machine!

 

and that a job we privately savoured,

that took five minutes, at the most,

had now fallen to new technology;

making the days of washing up – toast.

 

 

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