What cook worth his salt could contemplate
putting such an array on a plate?
A dribble of peas, a pitiful puddle;
his mind must be a mushy muddle.
The cod in batter is so dry,
it petitions a tear from my eye.
And what can be said of the chips?
Triple-fried? Just read my lips.
St. Peter risked life on the seas,
for victuals so different to these.
This shrivelled, misshapen cod;
a fist in the face of God.
How can I bring myself to eat
this farcical Fish Friday Treat?
Regular followers of this blog will know that I frequently write poems provoked or inspired by food and drink. Recent examples of this are poems about cherry tomatoes and peach schnapps. The Song of the Cherry Tomato was intended to celebrate the delicious nature of such miniature tomatoes, and the ease of eating them. Fish Friday, on the contrary, was provoked by one of the most disappointing meals I’ve ever been served in a restaurant. I’ve always enjoyed eating fish and chips, and have written poems on the subject before. There’s something about the connections with fish and the Christian religion, together with the habit of eating fish on a Friday, that tend to generate poetic imagery. I would have liked to have written in a more celebratory tone, but the food that was offered to me on this occasion was so awful that I was left with no alternative.