Yorkshire Writers' Lunch

A roast beef sandwich with English mustard, Mum’s apple pie with tinned yellow custard. A burger with blue cheese and fries on the side, Bacon and black pudding, crisply fried.   A pot of pork dripping from Sunday’s roast With the brown jelly spread on Monday’s toast. Cold meat and salad for that day’s tea With piccalilli and onions and a mug of strong tea.   Donuts made on the harbour top, Covered in sugar and eaten still hot. Fish and chips on the front with paper and fork Then back to the car on the cliff walk.   Cheese from the market, wrapped in waxed paper, The best pork pies still warm from the baker. French crusty bread deliciously smelly, Salami and Prosciutto from the Italian Deli. Red Summer Pudding packed full of berries, A villa in France and sweet, sun-ripe cherries. Strawberries and Cream and Tarte au Citron, Cold Crème Brûlée and Vacherin aux Marrons.   A beachside restaurant and the catch of the day, ...

Inside the Forcing Sheds at the side of the Volga, the crop of crimson and red stalks with their yellow, tightly wrinkled heads, failed to appear. The growers silently watched and waited. They tested the soil and the air but there was no explanation -except the unthinkable. Sabotage. Not one of the stern-faced experts dared to voice their suspicions but as the days and nights passed, it became the only explanation.   Some foreign force had invaded the Sheds of the Motherland and committed an act of cold, calculated, international, agro-warfare. Across the city, a man was being briefed on this latest act of aggression. Rhubarb was a vegetable he had adored since childhood. Its laxative properties had often been called upon to work their relieving magic on the most stubborn days. There were moments when he allowed himself to remember growing up, the days of rhubarb crumble, sticky-fingered rhubarb and ginger jam spread thickly on homemade black bread. Only those in his very innermost...

Harriet rummaged through the spice jars, frowning impatiently when her fingers didn’t land immediately on the one she wanted. “Rosie, next time you cook, put these jars back properly!” She exclaimed crossly.   “You know I have to have them in order so I can find stuff!” “Mum, they’re better stored alphabetically, much more logical,” sighed Rosie.   “Basil doesn’t go next to oregano or marjoram.” “It makes sense to me , and it’s luckier to group them according to recipe,” Harriet mumbled absentmindedly, as she painstakingly re-organised the cupboard.   She sent a silent prayer to the Goddess she believed in, apologising for her daughter’s ignorance. Rosie studied her mum, trying to conceal her concern and - let’s face it - growing impatience and unease at her mother’s erratic behaviour, becoming more so with each anniversary. “Mum, let me make it this year, and I promise to put all the jars back as you like them - won’t spill anything either,” Rosie gently offere...

  On top of an antique bureau, I find a packet of crisps. This is not my bureau nor is it my packet of crisps. I turn to the owner of one or both.             He is a little old shopkeeper with a fan of grey curls around the massive bald spot on top of his head. Only after I clear my throat does he take his slippered feet off his desk and come to my assistance. I point at the crisps. “Don’t you have a bin for that?”             The old man titters. “Actually, you’ll find that this is just as much an antique as the bureau.”             “How so?”             “It’s Golden Wonder.”             I shake my head, waiting for more.             At last he...

            The royal family were quick to accept the role of 'prize' on The UK's Finest Fillets TV show.             When the family sat down to sample the cod of Ezra Williamson, the Duke of Edinburgh made a passing comment. Unusually everyone was inclined to agree with it: if only they could organise a meal like this every year.             A proper meal, of course, requires a dessert. The Rule Britannia Cake Bake had been going strong for a little under a decade and the Duke of York had admitted to fancying a lemon drizzle cake made by an ambitious minority.             An agreement was reached with the producers and the Duchess of Cambridge was volunteered to sample the winner of that year: an overly-rich upside-down cake. She had to prove her worth...