Lunch.

My health kick
has begun.
Four weddings this year
(no Hugh Grant jokes please)
and I have a stunning
strapless
cinch-waisted
tulip-hemmed dress
to squeeze into by summer.
My usual lunch of hearty soups
and tiger bread
is replaced by celery
radishes,
cherry toms.
One wholemeal pitta
and an apple to follow,
good lord I'm being good.
But it's this crunch of
ice-cold salad
that makes me think of you.
You used to keep radishes in
old Vitalite tubs
in your heaving, visitor-friendly fridge,
and I would pop them in
to my mouth like sweets.
Rachel Radish,
everyone called me.
Well guess what, folks?
She's back.
A squirt of
Be Good To Yourself salad cream
and I am back at your dining table,
Grandma,
with one of your classic lunches.
Cheeses, hams, rolls, a basket full of crisps.
My sister and I would fight over
the last Smokey Bacon.
Grandad would ask for the ham,
and my small arms would wave
the heavy plate towards him.
You would stand an army of dressings,
condiments and sauces
and I would test my young tastebuds
with honey and mustard,
or blue cheese.
There would be pie or cheesecake for afters,
after you hovered around the table
making sure everyone ate but you -
we would have all nearly finished
as you cut a tomato in two and
buttered a piece of bread.
I would love one of your lunches now.