SKIN ON THINGS...

It Might Have Been The Skin

It might have been the rice,

The custard, the semolina,

Or even the sago pudding,

Which began my loathing, my sin,

My mealtime seething, I suppose;

Although the unlikely fear probably

Stemmed less from the parental castigation

But more from the quivering surface skin.

It might have been the consistency, 

The regularity, the hot milk,

Or the timing of the pudding,

Which continued my depression, my repugnance,

My mealtime foreboding, I suppose;

Although the irrepressible fear probably

Stemmed less from the invisible impression

But more from the texture, the objectionable abhorrence.

Procrastination:

Cabbage, maybe, or runner beans,

Unless flooded by mint sauce.

Condemnation:

Incarcerated, certainly, or threatened,

Until production of second course…

Desperation:

Skin forming, obviously, or thickening,

Under pressure to clear plate.

Trepidation:

Swallowing rapidly, or gulping,

Unwise, yet imperative: the skin a focus of hate…

Pete Ray

I hated the skin on milk puddings, or custard, as a kid and I was made to eat all of my dinner, even when over-cooked cabbage remained on the plate, before I could tackle my apple pie and custard to prevent the yellow mass skinning over...

Nearly as bad as dumplings...

LEFT-HANDED BUT FORCED BY MY FATHER TO CONFORM...

I LIKED THIS...

LEFT-HALF...

SOUTHPAW GUNSLINGER...