Baking with Mother

She was always there in the kitchen, 

pinny and patterned frock, 

Flour, sugar, butter, mixing bowl; 

long gone recipe just ad hoc, 

Adding the eggs whilst singing the wrong words 

to every radio tune. 

Oliver Twist sits at the table

ready to lick a discarded spoon.

Coconut Haystacks, angel, chocolate, and rice cakes, 

to speak a few 

Oh the smells from that oven 

were enough to make a small boy weep

The agony of the cooling time

sitting on the wire rack.  

Intent faces, it’s a pantomime, 

the waiting game is back. 

Conceded after a couple of rounds 

with an imperceptible nod, 

Consent duly given to eat the one 

that came out odd. 

Strange she was so meticulous in her work, 

But this one not a perfect bake. 

But happy sticky fingered boys, 

never question warm cake.