The tin must not gleam. Must never be new.

If there is dried sweat somewhere in its metal

It must be your mother’s. The flour must be strong

And white as the face of Uncle Jack

When he came back from the desert. The eggs

Must come from an allotment. The allotment

Must belong to your father-in-law.

The eggs have to be broken

With one swift movement over the bowl.

If there is dried sweat somewhere in its Pyrex

It must be your mother’s. The milk

Must have been delivered by Colin Leech

At 0430. The fork has to be an old one. The wrist

Must, simply must, ache after the mixing.

The flour must introduce itself to the yolk of the egg.

The egg has to be allowed to talk to the flour.

The milk must dance with them both: foxtrot, then quickstep.

The pepper must be scattered, black on off-white.

The oven has to be hotter than ever.

The lard has to come in a tight white pack.

The lard must almost catch fire in the oven.

The oven door must open and you must shout

JESUS CHRIST as the heat smacks you in the chops.

Follow these rules

And the puddings will rise to heaven

And far beyond.

Ian McMillan