The itsy bitsy humpty dumpty little lamb does not rhyme, but those nursery tales do. Itsy and bitsy, humpty and dumpty, Little Jack Hormer sitting in the Corner. These characters meant something to someone at sometime.  When we were kids though it was just something simple to latch hold of and parade out.  Did I learn mine out of a book, with a  big sister or my mother reading to me, the same way she used to read Rupert the Bear stories to me, crouched on a stool beside the bed.

I wonder what Mary’s lamb would have tasted like. If I could have got hold of it and made a decent roast – probably very nice with some roasted potatoes and a river of gravy made from pan juices, hmmm yes I can see that steaming lump of meat being carved by my father with the special sharpened kitchen knife. The same way I now do it with the sharpener : pull blade toward me, flip and push away repeat until it will split a hair. I can see the guillotine knife exposing the pink tender slab of lamb, going onto my plate and sitting just under my nose. The mingle of the meat and potatoes in crispy  brown jackets. The gravy from the container held daintily between fingers is a brown vale that cloaks the meal. Slicing through the potato a puff of steam leaps out and then tender clouds of roasted goodness float into my mouth with their crunchy skins. The meat is a soft cushion landing on the palette, melting away like butter on an hot day.  Poor Mary did she walk about with her mouth watering the whole time, thinking of eating that little lamb and did Jack ever get to have a dessert of rich plum pudding, fabulous with custard, a yellow swamp of custard that the pudding drowns in. A vanilla sugar explosion that sets off the dark plum taste is a wonderful contrast.