brain food

life is but a

melancholy flower

life is

and from youth the matter

suffers a decline

from the airy sanguine

through choleric blood

to the melancholic earth

life is butter

the phlegmatic young

may be enjoyed lightly inspired

life is but a melon

yellow bile

honeydew

black bile

piel de sapo

but with individuals displaying

a darker humour

other culinary techniques must be employed

up to the testing of by fire

for best results

look for a cream colouration

indicating a level of maturation

blood and phlegm

life is but a melon

Cantaloupe

Charentais

Galia

Galen

Water

Too, too solid Air

but not yet too advanced

while the firm flesh should offer

some light resistance

life is but a melancholy flower

blood, yellow bile, black bile, and phlegm

as the palpating fingertips

carefully check each ventricle

for blemishes and irritations

pineal parasites, pests and aberrations

Other    Dark    Spots

the frogskin of encasing leaves

should be removed

and the stem severed at the base

to thus allow extraction

from the cranium case

having washed the whole

separate the lobes

parietal

occipital

frontal

temporal

a melancholy flower

and with a sharp blade

sever the cortex

right through the stem

"Basal ganglia" by Mikael Häggström and Andrew Gillies*
 https://commons.wikimedia.org/wiki/File
:Basal_ganglia.svg#/media/File:Basal_ganglia.svg

from each segment

incise slices

no more and yet no less

than a centimetre thick

the which lay flat in your pan

non-stick

life is butter-melon

medulla oblongata

drizzle with a fine

extra virgin olive oil

or spread with rich butter

spice with whole cumin seed

then salt liberally

life is but a melon

a steady temperature

http://ohmyveggies.com/wp-content/uploads
/2012/08/cajun_roasted-cauliflower_steaks.jpg

Gas Mark 6 to 7

depending on the

thermal efficiency of your oven

will be sufficient

to tenderise the flesh

and caramelise the cauliflower

life is but a

life is but a

melancholy flower

melancholy flower

life is butter melon

life is but a melon

cauliflower

cauliflower

*

- Made in Inkscape. The following raster image was used for modelling:Basal-ganglia-coronal-sections-large.png (By Andrew Gillies/User:Anaru; Creative Commons Attribution ShareAlike + GFDL license). Licensed under CC BY-SA 3.0 via Wikimedia Commons - 

On Sunday Afternoon

I have turned on the oven

and if you have no plans for them

I will take the Bramley apples

which have been sitting

in the fruit bowl

for three weeks now

and I will wash them

under a running tap.

I will peel them and remove their cores

and cut them into regular cubes

or at least

into random chunks of

approximately

the same size

I will place these cubes

or chunks

into the large brown crockery casserole

that you bought from that Antiques Shop

in Kirkby Stephen

while we were on that walk from Crosby Garrett,

you remember,

when the children were little,

the one where we

also bought

the large flat soup dishes

that are now all broken.

(You didn’t buy that there?

oh

well at least you are aware

of the one to which I refer.)

I will sprinkle dark brown sugar

and a little spice all over the

apples although I will not

measure

the sugar

and there will always be

a faint unknowing

as to whether the

finished dish

will be deliciously sweet

or religiously sharp.

I have a sense of it

though

and a certain amount of experience

and besides

I enjoy the risk

- like the heat of chillies.

In another bowl I will rub

ounces of

butter

into twice as many

ounces of

plain flour

I will add as many

ounces of

demarara sugar

as I have added of butter

and a similar

amount

of the large rolled oats

that we both like.

This topping

I will sprinkle on to the apples

and pat down lightly

running the back of a fork over it

to create small furrows

so that the finished dish

will resemble

a ploughed field.

I will then place 

the completed crumble

into the oven

which I have preheated.

Gas Mark 4

It is in the oven

that the magic will happen

and after about forty minutes

(during which time I will

clear the surfaces

and

wash the bowls and utensils

I have used)

I will

take it out

and check the look of it

and the aroma of it

and the texture of the crumble topping

for signs of perfection.

A little lava-like

outflowing of

the bubbling sweet apple juices

onto the ridged and crusty surface

may not be a bad thing.

If all these signs are right

I will stand the crumble

in its brown crockery casserole

on the pot-stand by the kettle

to rest a moment

while I quickly make some

custard.

Not an elaborate real custard

but a simple one

made from the

Bird’s Custard Powder

we keep in the cellar head

with perhaps a teaspoon full of

Madagascan vanilla extract

and a small pot of that

thick double cream

that you insist on.

The crumble

I will then spoon into bowls

one for you

and one for me and

the custard

I will tip into a jug

and, with the small headed ladle,

and a couple of dessert spoons,

I will bring them

in to you

in the sitting room

while you sit and

watch

the Antiques Roadshow

where you discover

that

the large flat soup dishes

which are now all broken

would have been worth about

ten times what we paid for them

were we never to have used them

and then 

felt the need 

to sell them.

Your disappointment is short-lived

however

as you taste

the Bramley apples,

sweetened and spiced to perfection,

under the crumble topping,

crunchy but not too hard,

golden brown and yet not too brown

with a slight caramelisation of apple juices

baked on around the crumble edge

and the three ladlefuls of rich sweet custard

albeit only Birds

that cover the contents of your bowl

and ensure that it is

a delightful

and delicious

remedy

on Sunday Afternoon

Chip Shop Allegro

You are working well tonight

you girls

at the Chip Shop Allegro

this Friday evening

and

men, dark bears, stand

clawpaws

in pockets

waiting for service

issuing instructions

more onions please

to you three scurrying squirrels

who

shovel chips into paper wraps

shear

spiced meat coils from

gas flamed skewers

into warm split pitta 

toss

sausages battered and plain

and golden sizzling haddock and cod

into the glass-fronted hot cabinet

only to

tong them out again

moments later and

rest them

on polystyrene trays

piled high with fries

next to blue plastic forks

and jealous eyes

of the back of the queue grizzlies 

watch

while the vittles diminish

there behind

the steamed greasy panes

and they

lick their lips

as they wait for chips

at the shakers of salt

and the

bottles of malt and

small packets of ketchup

in plastic baskets

next to the Marie Curie

collecting tin

and your long hair in a lank

hank

multi-banded ponytail

protrudes from your baseball cap

and flaps

at your back

as you push your hot damp bangs

out of your eyes

with the soft white side

of your arm