My child demands a loud noise an oil a Lent a flour cake made of flat, white, and spongy; a very loud noise, eggshells, compost, of course. My child is a picky eater so of course greasy small fingers. Cake demands: my child, my child is flour, eggs, milk, butter, preheat the oven to gasmark 3, you’ll need this later. Of course my child is flat, white, and spongy. My pancake is my pancake is my pancake. Of course the pan, well seasoned. My child is well seasoned. And here is that recipe!
- Three hundred grams
- Compost bin liner, OK if it smells like Tide
- You can get it cheap at Tesco
- Heavy and cool in the palm of the hand
- Sharp crack (Do not pause for haruspicy unless you have a great deal of clear, very blue, not a single cloud, your mind no different than the vastness, of one substance. Of course my child demands pancakes, but perhaps you do not have a pan)
- Metal or whirring
- Traditionally, suet, but my child likes brown
- Quite a heavy box
- My child
This poem was created following a prompt to use repetition from at a class I’m taking at The Grotto called Pushing The Boundaries: Experiments in Fiction and Poetry (with Jenny Bitner). In class we had read excerpts from Gertrude Stein’s Tender Buttons, and many of us noticed that the pieces had the feeling of an etiquette manual. So, I decided here to re-create the feeling of a chatty recipe blog in imitation of Gertrude Stein.