Smoked Fish Cream Ramekins

SMOKED FISH CREAM RAMEKINS

Ingredients: (serves 8)

·        275g smoked haddock fillets

·        Freshly-grated nutmeg

·        2 eggs, lightly beaten

·        275ml double cream

·        300g smoked salmon slices

Method:

1.      Skin the haddock & remove any bones

2.      Cut into small pieces and place in a blender

3.      Add the eggs, salt, pepper and nutmeg

4.      Blend until you have a smooth, even pulp

5.      Transfer mixture to a bowl and chill overnight

6.      Next day line 8 ramekin dishes with slices of smoked salmon, overlapping as necessary

7.      Return fish mixture to blender and add the cream

8.      Blend thoroughly

9.      Divide the mixture between the eight ramekins

10.   Cover & chill until ready to cook

11.   Preheat oven to 170C (fan)

12.   Place ramekins in a roasting tin & fill with boiling water, at least half way up the ramekins

13.   Cook for 30 minutes until tops puff up & become golden brown

14.   To turn out – have warmed plates ready, hold ramekin in oven-gloved hand, flip out into other hand, then immediately back onto plate

What else you need to know:

1.      Serve with a small watercress salad and a suitable sauce – hollandaise, tartare, sweet chilli

Scarecrow

Scarecrow

He has no memory of his making

Or how he came to be here

Staked to his fixed position

In the middle of this muddy field

His face set North towards the trees

He has no idea what he’s supposed to do

Or the purpose of his existence

Except to watch and wait

Through the clearest starry nights

The cold and frost biting at his fingers

And the long and lonely days

The Sun burning into his staring eyes

And bleaching pale his tattered clothes

He cannot move, nor look around

But must stand here, arms outstretched

Alone and forever crucified

His ragged hat and jacket

Flapping in the breeze

Silhouetted against the sky

Stark, dark, and solitary

His few unbid companions

Contemptuous of his looming figure

Casting a slowly-moving shadow

Across the fertile furrows

Boldly walk quite close

Huge black birds that croak and squawk

As they gorge themselves

Upon the seeds and shoots

Perhaps, if he had any feelings

He would pity them

In their fight to feed themselves

Scratching out their existence

From upon the earth beneath his feet

The weather slowly wears him down

Rotting the stuffing of his guts

Which slowly falls away

Vermin-nibbled

And is picked and pecked

To form good nesting material

So that other creatures may be warm

And live another day

Copyright Andy Fawthrop 2020

Windy Day

Windy Day

Driven inside, the cats hunker down

And sleep their peaceful dreams

In baskets by the stove

Unconcerned by noises in the chimney

And gentle soot-falls gathered in the grate

Every door blow-battered

Gust-clattered windows

Buffeted and blown by the gale outside

Blasting the hedges sideways in its fury

Tattoo-beating spurts of rain

Like gravel against the panes

Heavy water droplets driven every which way

Casements banging in the frames

And, above all else

The moaning and groaning

Howling and whistling

Of the storm venting its fury

Against the brick-work of the house

I think I feel the chimneys shaking

Their prominent stacks exposed

At the highest levels of the air

And then the roof-tiles singing

In nailed and slated resistance

To this unwarranted onslaught

Upon their serried ranks

By clinging fast to hold the line

And keep the house together

Unsheltered, the flowers forced flat

Leaning down against the soaking ground

Bushes and trees bending backwards

Revealing the paler underside of leaves

Pressed hard against the creaking fences

And down the lane, new rivers run their courses

Silt and sand driven from out the fields

Beneath the air-borne fusillade

Of twigs and leaves, and scraps of paper

Swept far into the distance

Beneath the blackened skies

Copyright Andy Fawthrop 2020

Swallows

Swallows

A hot day among cold, hard stones

Of crumbled Abbey remnants

Whose fallen arches and tumbled walls

Tell monastic tales of a distant past

And stand stark against a dark blue sky

Which threatens later thunder

Yet, still, there are strong shadows

Providing pools of cooler air

Where one may sit a while

And gaze across the finely-razored grass

To watch in frank amazement

The antics of daring aerial acrobats

Swooping down at break-neck speed

Soaring, then wheeling round

Before diving sharply

To skim low above the ground

Twisting and turning

Seeming to stop dead in mid-air

To change direction in a blink

Then banking away again between the ruins

Seconds later re-emerging, jet-like

Black-and-white arrows

Fanning out in formation

Spitfire-winged stuntmen

Trailing sleek, long-forked tails

Chittering, chattering amongst themselves

In high-pitched communication

Co-ordinating their attacks

Upon the lazy insects

And one is left to wonder

If those medieval monkish men

Who once worked and walked here

So many centuries ago

Saw this same dazzling display

And applauded the power of their Creator

To fashion these clever little creatures

Copyright Andy Fawthrop 2020

We're All Drinking For George

We’re All Drinking For George

We chat in measured mumbles

In our twos and in our threes

Balancing thin cups upon their saucers

Sure it was a hard way to go, and everybody knows it

Very hard on his family we’re all thinking

But no-one talks about the real problem

No-one mentions George and his drinking

Everyone thinks about the good times

He was a good sort, and great company

With a quick joke on his lips, or telling a tall tale

Holding court in his favourite corner

Lewd laughter, green eyes twinkling

Ever-ready for another, if we’d set them up,

Another long night of George and his drinking

No mention of the damage he was doing

Destroying his guts from the inside

His liver wet-rotting, blood-pressure bubbling

His florid face and trembling hands

Everyone here knew that he was sinking

But he took a long time over his dying

And that’s what George got for his drinking

Where were these old drinking companions

When he started losing his way?

Down and damaged, calling the odds

Worse for wear, falling down drunk?

In his cups first thing in the morning

Unsavoury, unwashed and stinking

Unable to get served anywhere?

We daren’t join in with George and his drinking

A murmur goes round the black-coated room

This tea and coffee’s meagre stuff for mourning

There’s a move to push off down to the pub

No-one’s looking his family in the eye

Everyone trying not to cause any offence

It’s what he would’ve wanted, did someone say?

A sliding off for something stronger

And admit we’re all drinking for George today

Copyright Andy Fawthrop 2020

Drivel From Devizes - Dateline Sunday 8th March 2020

Drivel From Devizes: Dateline – Sunday 8^th March 2020

Here is our weekly round-up of events from D-Town:

                                              

1.      Police are patrolling the streets of D-Town in an attempt to prevent looting and wide-scale panic buying in the face of reports that Corvid-19 is headed this way.  People caught in possession of more than six toilet rolls, two hand sanitisers or 3 containers of liquid soap face confiscation of the items, arrest and imprisonment.  However police are being over-whelmed with arrests as people begin to realise that the prisons have plenty of these supplies.  It’s also seen as a free method of self-isolation.

2.      And the future of the 49 bus route is in danger as passenger numbers drop alarmingly in the face of the coming plague.  The bus company has been accused of operating “ghost runs” of certain services with no passengers aboard at all, in an attempt to preserve their hold on scheduled take-off slots from The Vize bus station.

Copyright Andy Fawthrop 2020

Lifeline

Lifeline

He knows the effort it costs him

Feels the ache of muscles

The back-breaking work

Naked and exhausted

Rock-cracking and sifting

Lifting loads in the heat, the filth and mud

To find the tiny grains

Small speckles of value

Sparkling precious pieces

That mean so much to him

Just enough to exist, to eat, to carry on

Hunting, scavenging, rat-like

In a diabolic hell-hole

Deep inside the Earth

A dark world of danger

Among the drills and dust

Crawling through flooded shafts

To reach a promising seam

Of grit that holds the glitter of gold

And the faintest gleam of hope

But he cannot trace it any further

Transported, transformed

Refined and purified into heavy ingots

Which sit, unused, in high-security rooms

Reserves of national treasure

To guarantee the currency

And maintain suitable short supply

To keep the prices high enough

Within the global market

Nor see it spun into delicate filaments

Its decorative strands

Worked by artistic hands

To adorn elegant, well-heeled figures

Among the wealthy and well-to-do

Who, in a languid moment

May reach out for their electronica

Slim-line models in brushed-leather cases

To access the latest features

And communicate across the world

By a finger’s touch

Perhaps even to the darkest heart of Africa

Copyright Andy Fawthrop 2020