I see her still, my mum

As unthinking and with the practise of years, she gathers the ingredients.

Breadcrumbs, flour, suet, join brown sugar and salt in a large bowl

She adds mixed spice, cinnamon, and ground ginger along with currants, sultanas and bicarb

With a wooden spoon she dextrously brings them together.

She whisks the golden egg with the milk,

Folds in the lustrous black treacle,

Adding it to the dry ingredients.

Already the kitchen begins to hint of the pleasures to come

Wetting a muslin cloth, she wrings it out

Before laying two large pieces of baking parchment crossways on it.

She upturns the bowl and with a pleasing plosh the mixture settles on the paper

She draws the edges together into a rounded football

And ties it up tightly

She sets an upturned saucer into a large pan of water

And immersing the parcel, she puts it on the stove to boil

Soon the kitchen is filled with steam

And awash with the rich smell of spices

The magic will take three hours

But we know there will be Clootie Dumpling for tea.