The Day AfterI made a leek and potato soup the day after, prompted by the look of the peeled potato going soft in a glass of water by the sink. Beyond the back door, drizzle and the raw morning air argued for soup, added their weight to the nod of the knife slicing the leeks, wrapped up in themselves, into logs, into rings – whites, yellows and greens – that I agitated till they came clean in a bowl of cold water and set simmering with the potato in stock I'd thickened with flour, sprinkled with dried herbs – rosemary, thyme – and startled with a splash of leftover wine. We had it for lunch, liquidised with the top of the milk and heated through and though I dare say you didn't notice the taste, you ate it. It's sometimes too soon to speak about things, but you've got to eat.
Michael Laskey, from The Tightrope Wedding (Smith Doorstop, 1999)
Sunday, September 17, 2023
Michael Laskey Poem
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