Our Menu is Designed to Be Shared

 

Mine mine mine

Our Menu is Designed to Be Shared

 

Have you dined with us before? Yes, you always reply whether you have or have not because you don’t want to hear our menu is designed to be shared for the one thousandth bread-stick stuck in your throat and the rosé hasn’t arrived time.

 

When did being told how to compile your surf, turf and garden veg with intentional herbs and spices become part of the dining-out experience? We’re a nanny kitchen state. Bring back own plates. Our menu is designed to be eaten any way you jelly well wish.

 

Guard your own carefully chosen dish, you greedy little piggy. Shovel in your porterhouse just walked past the flames and your rocket, pear and walnut insalata with no risk of foreign salivas infusing your repast.

 

Or spoon forkfuls of your pappardelle wagyu brisket into your date’s wide-open bouche then lick those meaty fragments from her chin if they fall – if you wish. Let her feed you peeled king prawns in her garlic-butter dripped fingers.

 

Or chop your chicken breast à la lemony butter into bite-size pieces then stab and fork, stab and fork them into your mouth – your elbow firmly on the table – your utensil part of the conversation – your open mouth a spin cycle of poultry mastication as you tell an extinct native bird story.

 

Or do as you’re told and share those plates – we recommend four between two people – you order five – he wants the octopus and you cannot eat octopus because they have three hearts – it’s far too much – you feel cheap asking for a puppy-bag to save meal prepping later. 

 

What an unhinged first date, yet you can’t help but smile with tomorrow’s remote working lunch afloat in your Yu Mei tote – himself and his pescatarian man-pony couldn’t stand the beetroot and Halloumi with Chimichurri crumbs or the fake truffle polenta fries. 

 

He’s taken his sighing to the resting room to comb his soul patch and discover charred fish suckers in his teeth – his phone forgotten on the table phone vibrates – it’s Cherry suggesting Letz meat for dessert …

 

Our menu is designed to be shared.

Jane Bloomfield

Collection 2023, 24, 25, 26

"You've Come A Long Way Baby" - Oh Virginia - a poem

 Smoking Kills

Artwork: Laura Williamson

Ode to Princess Peony (with Nicki Minaj Riffs)

Shirley, Karl & Sarah

As the two-week harvest comes to an end I reflect on the

showiest pony in the field – the peony

 

Lovers wait all year for you to appear only to agonise over

the tightness of your bald head preferring to buy a lollipop

stick over a tight pink nana perm – girl so confusing

 

Take her out and she’s always going to be your drunk auntie

at the wedding cutting the best moves on the dance floor to

a remix disco version of Beez in the Trap

 

Bee beez in the trap she’ll step outside take a deep breath &

feel real high

 

Oh Pee you’re as bosomy as Sophia Loren in Pret A Porter

during a pretend Paris Fashion week

 

As sexy as Elizabeth Taylor in Cleopatra before she married

Richard Burton for the first time

 

You’re the lingering scents of lily of the valley talcum powder

and butterfly kisses like your great gran’s Russian fudge

 

A bride so blushing – a butch biker in a pashmina – the dude

in white flares – a head prefect going for dux – a secret crush

a quiet lover – that friend

 

Sweet Pee you’re the milk chocolate Bailey truffle of the Christ

mass assortment – you’re the hot-tonged blonde who’ll ghost us

too soon and leave the cake out in the rain

 

Yo man tell cousin Pansy to kiss my ass – until next year.

 

 

Jane Bloomfield

Nicki Minaj - Beez in the Trap

 

I Bet You Haven't Seen Jesus's Poo

 

Tapu*

The best humble brag I made in the school yard was - my grandfather’s got some of Jesus’s poo. He was the local Anglican vicar so it was likely he kept sacred organic ornaments beside letter-knife and pipe and paper-weight. How my sister and I came to be in narrow canvas stretchers (supposedly sleeping) in the museum of his study that weekend remains a mystery. My parents were in a guest room, there must have been more than one in that rambling, veranda trimmed vicarage in Puketapu. But a theologian’s study is a place of wonder and chance, and raising my sleepy head in the dim morning light those consecrated stools were the first thing I spied. I can still picture the three of them now on the sage leather inlay of the huge oak desk – soft brown, finger-sized, dry and odourless. The only smell in the room was time. Spice and books, linen and tobacco, honey and ash, wisdom and charm. And wonder, because I, Jane Frances Newcome Waymouth had witnessed Jesus’s blessed stools. I skipped to church on Sunday morning down through the willow treed garden. The congregation loved my grandfather they gave him the moniker – Tapu | Sacred. Giving his weekly sermon, Tapu certainly looked celestial to me, his pale neck rising from his white dog collar, his dark pleated robes elongating him a stained-glass saint at the lectern. Word angels swirling around the little wooden church over beams and under pews. A knowing smile on his lips as he caught my stare in the front row - we’d both communed with the sacred manure. None of my school mates believed me for longer than a week but I held our communication close. Tapu also had a law degree had I challenged him I would have uncovered the truth. Instead over time, I composted it into the sweetest human-humus. Tapu stepped back into my life five years ago. I was prostrate on a thin towel covered gurney – a human portal in a crystal healing session – I’d been asked to channel my male spirit guide. I didn’t know I had one but no sooner had I asked and Tapu’s face, the one above that Sunday lectern, hovered above me in a dark endless universe. A silent presence in my Divine Pathway, my 12th chakra. How he'd silently guided me over the previous fifty-five years I do not know, he died when I was still touting the holy stool story. Consecrated scat mystery aside, Tapu my grandfather, man of the cloth, continues to appear if I will him to. I’ve kept our secret safe.

 

I bet you haven’t seen Jesus’s poo.

*Stephen Francis Newcome Waymouth, Venerable Archdeacon of Hawkes Bay, my grandfather

Humans Can Normalise Anything

 

Kipiadis Beach, Paxos, Greece

  

Holidaying on a tiny Greek island with the threat of nuclear warfare approximately three thousand kilometres to the east, June 2025—sunbathing beside the turquoise Ionian Sea for the first time in my sixty one years and minutes after my blue and white umbrella cartwheels away and shaves the legs of the couple beside us a high-pitched supersonic engine thrum interrupts my sound space and next minute the azure water is ruffled by a fucking low flying fighter fuckin jet flyover—a Tom Cruise and Maverick move over reclined bikinis and bleached pebbles and hired motor craft and my daughter and me now sitting upright too far from our peace keeping country—an errant B2 jet fighter heading home? post Israel and Iran playing cowboys and Indians with quick draw missiles and nuclear arrows and Clusters last orange sheriff’s pop tweets earlier boasting spectacular military precision how his might broke up the fight declaring it a twelve day war and peace on earth—not a word about the ghost spirits made from bombs and radiation leaks just gold stars for the warty war lords flexing—I roll over and go back to my novel Romantic Comedy play acting the nothing to worry about parent no point freaking out ruining the chill vibe where we gonna run to anyway on our Greek island holiday in June.

Humans can normalise anything.

The Animals Have It

 

Anteater stack

In the same week I discovered my old horse Star was blind in his right eye a dolphin swam up a river and a sperm whale swallowed a boy on a kayak then spat him out again – his father filmed the whole thing talking to his son all the while telling him to stay calm - stay calm slipping around on a whale’s tongue a la Geppetto who actually ended up in a whale’s stomach and waited it out until his son Pinocchio came to his rescue – a monkey turned off the electricity in Sri Lanka sending the country back to the dark ages - a fox followed my middle daughter home on Wakehurst Rd, Clapham - a moose said hello to my son in a carpark outside a bar in Jackson – the male anteater carries its family on its back, baby on top of mum on top of dad - how many ants do anteaters need a day for that level of exertion I wondered as I did my daily hand-flick beside Star’s good eye hoping it keeps seeing – he’s a real whinny-er now - there’s nowt so noisy as a blind horse who wants to see – anteaters eat thirty thousand ants a day – that’s a daily consumption of one hundred and eighty thousand ant legs – good to know they’re getting their protein – octopuses have three hearts.

 

all over the planet

animals promise

emotional rescue

Author note:

The above is Jane Bloomfield's first attempt at Haibun. Popularised by Basho in 17th Century Japan - a Haibun is a poem using a combination of prose and haiku. Hopefully, I've sort of nailed it. A fun if tricky writing exercise. Give it a whirl, poets! Inspo - Rattle Mag Spring Issue #87's Haibun feature with the most excellent curation of Haibun, and an interview regarding writing the poetry form between Timothy Green and Lew Watts.

Did They Serve Iceberg Lettuce on The Titanic?

It always pays to eat your wedge

Iceberg lettuce doesn’t look like an iceberg nor does it taste like one, it tastes of sandwiches curing in a leather satchel in the cloak bay outside Room One. 

 

Warm lettuce membrane pocked with butter and Marmite, a pale but pungent filigree between thin crusted white bread.

 

Wasn’t it a treat when mum changed it up and you found Marmited crinkle cut chippy crunch in place of damp raw leaf.

 

Often thought to be lacking in nutrients due to its bland demeanour - lettuce info dot org tells me the veg contains Vitamin K and folate.

 

And a superior sensory profile thanks to 96% water content it’s our obsessive diet culture’s perfect D for the carb-less lettuce cup. 

 

Burger oft desired when shredding, to house your thick saturated fat meat patty and melted cheese it’s all about how many grams of protein nowadays meal.

 

Behold this mighty lettuce really comes into its own not sliced fine in a soft shell fish taco or minced and refrigerator-aged in a foot-long meatball Subway sub.

 

But when eighth’d and served dressed in Thousand Island dressing dripped with bacon crisps and croutons - I give you the iceberg wedge.

 

Only the greatest mullet salad of all times eaten with a knife and fork alongside a chargrilled porterhouse steak in any fine diner east of Eden.

 

James Cameron towed an iceberg from New Found Land to the movie set of the Titanic in New Mexico only it got stuck in the Panama Canal and melted, said SL4968Q on Reddit.

 

How to tow an iceberg has five hundred million and seventy-seven hits on Google, with the helpful hints - if you tow, go slow. 

 

An iceberg is a large floating mass of ice detached from a glacier, 90% of it lies underwater I don’t know about you but I’m scratching my head.

 

So many bee sting summer suppers served torn in salads slick with gran’s Condensed milk mayonnaise fresh from the garden row granddad named slug bait.

 

It always pays to eat your wedge. Derris dusted or not.

 

In answer to the question - iceberg lettuce was not served on the Titanic in 1912 - this unsinkable member of the Daisy family only hit the veg markets in 1920.

 

Jane Bloomfield 

Collection 2023-24-25

Wear Your Heart on Your Arm

photo of painting by Saskia Leek

I have a summer dress I never wore so started wearing it inside out and received a lot of compliments. Great dress! Nice dress!

 

Its silk chiffon lining a deeper pink than its 100% silk paler melon outer. A Karen Walker I bought in an end of end of last summer season archive sale for one-50 instead of seven-50.

 

I really was getting a bargain even if it is a size too big. Our model Carla’s five nine, she’s wearing a size eight. Despite the extra size it still snatches my biceps when driving.

 

The design is one of those ill-fitting drooped shoulders oversized lost waist voluminous skirt dresses. A dress with attitude and long ties prone to dragging theatrically in the mud. 

 

Multi-coloured covered button detail and industrial KW arrow zipper. A pink sack in the best silkworm-made materials - it looked killer on Carla in model’s own black biker boots.

 

Chains and sass. All The Single Ladies. Yet more English bather’s modesty curtain on five foot four in sandshoes me – a lined but badly hung curtain. 

 

But here I am wearing my dignity on my sleeve. My heart on my arm. My insides could be out the fabric is the colour of raw flesh - those meat packets I study at the supermarket.

 

Then end up at the self-checkout with a heavy load and nothing for dinner because it all starts to look imitation colour dyed forever raw and un-cookable in plastic petri dishes.

 

Kiwi poet, Jordan Hamel wrote a poem about eating an elephant. A poem about giving a lecture about how to eat the metaphorical elephant in the room with bacon references.

 

My country cat left a partially eaten rabbit on the balcony outside my bedroom. He does this frequently. Often only heads are missing. A torn ear discarded. Brains must taste sweet. 

 

This reminded me of all the lambs’ brains my mum made my sister and I eat in order to make us grow up brainy - when she wasn’t cooking up sheep offal to fuel us with iron.

 

Popeye could keep his canned spinach we had fried liver. Once country cat left a Victorian medical experiment in rabbit – the skin and fur completely removed from one side.

 

A precision dissection exposing muscle and sinew, rib bones, intestine, vital organs, and small non beating heart. De-gloved rabbit in aspic with spleen.

 

A woman coming up the escalator at Auckland airport told her friend - Yeah, but you can always smile and say hello. Wear your heart on your arm.

 

You never save money in a sale. That’s the truth of it.

Jane Bloomfield 

Collection 2023/24

What's That Bread Called Again? asked Mum

 

Thelwell's Shetland Pony

Alzheimer's is pretty rife in my family. It's more of a beotch if you know you have it. Those snips of time which just dissolve into the void - lost forever. 'I know I've already asked, but what is that bread called again?' When that pill is available - I'm coming for it!

Jane X

Bite Me, Dracula - a poem

Bite Me

Did the vampire eat his wife for dinner?

Clearly not said an elegant elderly man reading my pussy

t-shirt in the second-hand bookshop of Saint Columba one Tuesday

‘White Fuzzy Cat’ limited edition 1/150 by The Vampire’s Wife

it’s Nick Cave’s wife Susie’s fashion label my tongue twisted

this tall man with a Harry Styles wave in white would know

who I was talking about

people in musty bookstores have higher IQs

score well in general knowledge quizzes

win daily at Wordle ardle oodle

or enjoy the hunt for cheap Presbyterian reads.

 

I found some cheap reads

my Lily Max children’s novels published 8 years ago

Book #2 as new, 2 bucks

Book #1 well thumbed, 4 bucks

Book #3 no where to be seen

I wrote these I told fuzzy bum the cat who’s actually black

I should have looked to see if a child had pencilled their

name on the endpapers - offered to sign them

taken an author with book selfie - put it on Insta

then I spied Prince Caspian galloping a black horse in a black forest

C S Lewis, 2 bucks, mine, browned pages, print so small a shrew

would don its headlamp.

 

Why did they use Times New Roman 6.5  in the early days of publishing?

Was everyone well sighted back then from fatty mutton chops and

quarter acres of boiled carrots in parsley sauce

the shop smelled of parsley sauce, the carpet thin sage.

We get a lot of famous people in here said the volunteer with

Barbara Cartland hair and a big voice

that women wrote these books she exclaimed after me

Fuzzy Cat mewed

Susie might have smiled

white Harry clutched Bram Stoker

and a lone ego floated briefly above the carpark.