The Mysteries of the Spice Rack At this time of year, at this time of day, I'm tempted to wonder why thyme's run out and mint's hardly started. Oh, I could say I'm not the sort of man to scream and shout in a clove crisis - I just need cinnamon to bake the perfect cake, to get a thing right the Nigella Lawson way. I'm a person in turmeric. I look for chervil all night. Oregano sucks. Ginger has vanished. Life without Rosemary's hard. My hand tightens round a jar. I only need to twist. In the Gary Rhodes world the pages get turned like a play; like a plot; like a plan. She went for Basil. I only sprain this wrist. Philip Wilson |
If you've any comment on this poem, Philip Wilson would be pleased to hear from you.