How To Blanch Onions
By Buzby
The recipe sounded easy, told me just what I had to doI know this may sound cliché, but I got in such a stew!Peeling spuds was fine, I do that every dayBut then it said, ‘blanch onions’ - Blanch them did it say?I read it once, I read it twiceIt still said blanch - I read it thrice!What was that? What could it mean?(I’d have been okay if it said steam!)I looked at my onions and looked at my bookFor a very long moment I just stood and lookedI looked at my pots, and I looked at my floorBut how to blanch onions I still wasn’t sureThen reason took over, I snatched up the phoneI’d call my mum and ask her, Oh please, let her be homeBut the phone just rang and rang, nobody was thereHow could she be out, It really wasn’t fairWho else could I ask? I ran out of the doorA passer-by was staring at the apron that I woreMy hair was all scraped back and my hand still clutched the knifeI looked much more like a loony than a law-abiding wifeI ran to my neighbours and banged on her door(The strange looks I got, I tried to ignore)I thought she was out, I was almost in tearsWhen she opened the door - complete with her shears!“Do you know how to blanch?” I screamed it aloud - By now we’d attracted a bit of a crowd,With weapons in hand we turned to the mob“Can anyone cook?” I was starting to sobThe crowd backed away, and watched us with fear(It was either my knife, or her garden shears!)“How do you blanch? Please tell me, please?”The policeman arrived as I fell to my knees“Threatening a crowd and creating a noiseHow do you blanch - here’s one for the boys”He thought it was funny, he actually laughedOkay, I grant you it might now sound daftBut I was hett up, my pride was all goneAnd to laugh at me then, I felt it was wrongSo I pushed the policeman, he fell to the floorAnd the funny thing was - he was laughing no moreI was marched off to the station, but when they let me goI still couldn’t blanch my onions, how it was done I didn’t knowThe kitchen was a mess and my husband was due nighSo I chopped my onions up and made good old shepherds pie(First Published in Poetry Now Magazine, Spring 2000) Written October 10th, 2001 © on Oct 10 2001 02:44 AM PST 0 • 14
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"The recipe sounded easy, told me just what I had to doI know this may sound cliché, but I got in such a stew!Peeling spuds was fine, I do that every dayBut then it said, ‘blanch onions’ - Blanch them did it say?I read it once, I read it twiceIt still said blanch - I read it thrice!What was that? What could it mean?(I’d have been okay if it said steam!)I looked at my onions and looked at my bookFor a very long moment I just stood and lookedI looked at my pots, and I looked at my floorBut how to blanch onions I still wasn’t sureThen reason took over, I snatched up the phoneI’d call my mum and ask her, Oh please, let her be homeBut the phone just rang and rang, nobody was thereHow could she be out, It really wasn’t fairWho else could I ask? I ran out of the doorA passer-by was staring at the apron that I woreMy hair was all scraped back and my hand still clutched the knifeI looked much more like a loony than a law-abiding wifeI ran to my neighbours and banged on her door(The strange looks I got, I tried to ignore)I thought she was out, I was almost in tearsWhen she opened the door - complete with her shears!“Do you know how to blanch?” I screamed it aloud - By now we’d attracted a bit of a crowd,With weapons in hand we turned to the mob“Can anyone cook?” I was starting to sobThe crowd backed away, and watched us with fear(It was either my knife, or her garden shears!)“How do you blanch? Please tell me, please?”The policeman arrived as I fell to my knees“Threatening a crowd and creating a noiseHow do you blanch - here’s one for the boys”He thought it was funny, he actually laughedOkay, I grant you it might now sound daftBut I was hett up, my pride was all goneAnd to laugh at me then, I felt it was wrongSo I pushed the policeman, he fell to the floorAnd the funny thing was - he was laughing no moreI was marched off to the station, but when they let me goI still couldn’t blanch my onions, how it was done I didn’t knowThe kitchen was a mess and my husband was due nighSo I chopped my onions up and made good old shepherds pie(First Published in Poetry Now Magazine, Spring 2000)..."