So many times I have prepared it,
That typical British Sunday lunch.
Roast beef, roast potatoes,
Cabbage and Carrots
With the wondrous Yorkshire Pudding,
All covered in a rich beef and onion sauce.
It was nearly ready,
The beef cooked to perfection
On top of the onions,
Just a trace of red oozing from it,
Left to rest while the veg was cooked.
The oven on full to cook the Yorkshire.
It was time to put it all on the plate,
The veg again cooked perfectly,
The roast potatoes
Crisp outside a soft inside,
The meat gently sliced with respect
And a sharp carving knife,
The gravy prepared from the meat juices
And the onions,
Thickened and flavoured
Was ready.
All was ready
Awaiting the crowning glory,
I opened the oven door
To remove the Yorkshire,
And there it sat
Sagging in the bottom of the dish!
Ruined!!
First time ever!
Why did it not rise?
Then it struck me
I had used the wrong flour,
So it couldn’t rise!
There I was with the Sunday lunch before me,
The meat, the potatoes and veg all perfect,
Covered with the beautiful gravy,
But tears were streaming down my eyes,
As this idiot had failed,
Failed to cook his signature dish,
The Yorkshire Pudding.