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THE KITCHEN
I viewed, my Mother's kitchen, In the days of 'Auld Lang Syne,' She was constant, in her system; When she scrubbed us, in the bine. She had no running water, No taps, to turn, just so - To keep our hair, a-shining, Sometimes, she melted snow. There were no fancy gadgets, To relieve, the stress and strain; From early morn 'til late at night, She never did complain.
Each morning we had porridge, It always seemed the same, Whole milk, but no sugar; We learned to eat it plain. Noontime brought hot cups of tea, It helped to slake our thirst; Now Mother gave the challenge, 'Let us eat the hard scone first.' She baked bread, three times a week, To feed her brood of seven; The whitened bread with laced, Was like Manna sent from Heaven.
The soup pot held a special place, With ladle and wooden spurtle, A source of vitamins within; Unknown in medic circles, Where did she learn her gourmet style, To cook with great finesse; Tho limited in pots and pans, She was sure to have success. When she left Scotland years ago, She brought her Scottish griddle; Treacle scones and pancake fare, Kept us fit us any fiddle. Copyright owned by the Wallace and Morehead families.
 
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