(Clockwise from bottom left: Sundance by Franciscan, Origin by Franciscan, Wellesley by Wood & Sons, Kilncraft by Staffordshire @’76)
(Origin dinner plate and logo on back)
The Crockery (really off-the-cuff)
In my kitchen you won’t find
Fine plates of the romantic kind
No curlicues or swirly things
Nor rosebuds, vines or girls on swings
No reapers with their sharpened knives
Nor husbands bussing (maybe) wives.
In my mess, you’ll not see that–
(Well, maybe, but it’s for the cat!)
My plates are tough; they weigh a ton
And can’t be broken all in one;
They’re stoneware, strong and ever Brit–
So big they can’t in washer fit,
But still I love their retro look
And choose them always when I cook.
Please visit the lovely and talented Elizabeth Wix’s blog, About New York for links to more participants in this Plate theme. Thanks.
I may not be able to comment or respond to comments today. Wednesdays typically are devoted to mom. We go for lunch, or have a nice lunch here, at my house and then we watch the British series, “The Choir” (which I tape on the PVR). It’s about a young man named Gareth Malone who went into an all-boys’ school (Lancaster Boys) where there was no music program at all and gradually won over enough of the boys to form a proper choir. They ultimately got to perform at The Royal Albert Hall in London. (See YouTube video in upper left sidebar).
The trials of putting this choir together and keeping the boys’ dedication alive is a really fascinating thing to watch. Gareth Malone is also a very captivating, though seemingly-unassuming individual. He has his own club on Facebook, a MySpace page and this series is the second one he’s done. I am hopeful there will be more as it is incredibly entertaining – funny, inspiring and uplifting all in one.
Mom is really enjoying it too!
Photo courtesy of Flickr
Every village has its vicar
In a British who-dunnit;
Someone’s always downing liquor
In the public house, to whit.
There’s a person bundling papers
And a butcher chopping meat,
As the children cut some capers
Round the bobby in the street.
The post office is bustling
With the people of the town;
There often is a schoolmarm
Or a justice with a frown.
A stranger always does appear
To throw us off the scent,
And frequently we come to learn
A local cop is bent!
One by one each body piles up
In a truly gruesome way;
The crime-scene crew tape outlines
Showing where the victim lay.
There’s a shutterbug with camera
Taking shots to show in court
And a coroner who’s crusty
Giving time-of-death report.
There’s the in-the-town inspector
Who’s called out to solve the case,
With his dogs-body detective
Digging hard at every trace,
‘Til the murderer’s in handcuffs
And sent packing off to gaol,
Everything goes back to normal–
‘Til the next mysterious tale.
From Cornwall to Newcastle
London-town to Aberdeen
Pick up a British Mystery
And say, “God Save the Queen!”
Here’s a strange thing. This morning I awoke with this Police song in my head. You may not think that is very strange, but I honestly have not thought of one bar of this song in over 20 years! I used to love the Police when they were in their FIRST heyday, and this was a great tune to dance to, but it was not one of my favourites and I have certainly graduated (in my maturity) to the more rich, substantial songs of Sting, rather than the poppy, hook-laden songs of the Police.
So, what does this mean? Well, I think a poem is on the brink and my subconscious is greatly troubled by the world we are abusing and the ultimate result. Please people! Be as GREEN as you can. I know, as Kermit, the frog once unknowingly said, “It’s not easy, being green,” but we MUST if we are going to survive longer than, oh, 50 years. I don’t know about you, but I’ll be 97 (we have longevity on my mother’s side of the family). Most of you blog-experts will be much younger than that, so take heed: Green is the only way to Go! So, reduce, reuse, recycle, conserve do all that you can to keep our planet thriving.
Sermon’s over. Now, ladies (and gents, perhaps), take a gander at this trio of desirable, playful, gorgeous, blond British “lads”, playing in the surf. Ah! The Eighties. Who can forget them?