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It was the only thing we all agreed on,

a slap-up meal from our local Kam Hon.

Ribs, sweet and sour, egg Fu Yung,

with chips, chow Mein, and special fried rice.

A bottle of good wine, kept on ice

and cold lagers from the bottom of the fridge.

You could always hear mum sigh with relief

at the anticipation of an all-out armistice.

She worked so hard, to bind us all together

with her Scottish flour, eggs and butter.

Kneading love into every slice but

somehow, the sweetness would never last.

So, on these rare occasions, we warmed the plates

and dad graced us with his omnipotence.

The table set, the slate wiped clean and for

a few precious hours, the five of us

kept our claws in and ate like bears,

thieving honey from the queen.

Our endless hunger was worth the gamble,

of listening to our dad’s boastful rambles.

With silent, wide-eyed contradiction,

we gnawed at bones then licked our fingers clean.

And for a skinny kid like me, it was enough.

20 07 20