Thursday, 22 January 2009


I know we all love to collect books. I have mine hidden away! I take them out just to enjoy the recipes. So here is a small poem about my books.

The rustle of pages worn, torn and bruised
Forgotten in time, read and discarded
Yellowed, frayed and ripped

Its crooked spine bent yet not broken
Pages freed and returned to their rightful place
Coffee stained and thread bare

Unlikely authors and scribes Thomas, Johnson and Craddock
Recipes,methods, tweaked and twisted
re-packaged as their own

They are a testament to our heritage
The recipes they hide within
Some great, some good, some bad
and some plain wrong!

The words contained within a journey
A sacred adventure into mixology
They read like ancient texts, words written in code
Muddle,shake or stir,strain and garnish
Known to many, understood by few

I hold them dear as they are packed tightly
Confined to the smallest space
They wait in anticipation

For my gentle caress,
The tickling and folding of their pages
Love,attention and inspiration

"It is not Twain, Elliot or Shakespeare
But I'm sure they would have enjoyed
A bittered sling or two."

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