Skip to content

2006

The Gravy Train

Horrors. Something was amiss in the kitchen… the first few days of colony we were gravyless, desolate. Two roast dinners came and went without a drop to drown in. Nought but a few tears moistened my roast potatoes on Sunday, and we quietly despaired amongst ourselves in parched mutters. However, glad to say things have righted themselves since and our universe floats once more in its happy sea.

As fate would have it, when I was at the AWP conference last year I picked up a copy of Poetry International 9 (2005), which we’ve all been browsing and which – wouldn’t you know it – includes a recipe-like poem called Gravy, by Barbara Crooker, which tells us to:

Scrape off bits of skin, bits of meat; incorporate
them in the mixture, like a difficult uncle
or the lonely neighbor invited out of duty.

Thus inspired, and still rejoicing after dinner, I reached for the gravy dish myself last night:

Gravy and More Gravy

Who’d want to live
in a world without gravy,
which makes all things
equal on the plate,
which gives potatoes
a smooth ride, which
comforts the meat
it came from….

Smoked Oysters

So. The poets (and prose writers and artists) gathered together last night at the writers and artists colony at St Peter’s Abbey admired the Fanny Bay smoked oyster dip (made from oysters I bought while last staying at The Cottage at Fanny Bay) and here is the recipe, which I tweaked as follows: instead of one tin of oysters, I used two. I added a dollop (couple of tablespoons) plain yogurt, a squeeze of lemon, a bit (half tsp) of minced lemon rind.

Instead of fresh, I used dried minced onion and dried parsley leaves, and as it sat for about an hour before we ate it, everything had time to soften up nicely I thought. It all seemed to go down equally well with french bread or chips.

I don’t think the Fanny Bay smoked oysters are as oily as other tinned commercial ones I’ve seen, so you might want to drain the oil off those if it looks like you’ll be swimming in it.