Toasting Cheese Poem by C Richard Miles

In the nineteen-sixties, when I was a lad,
On Saturday mornings, whilst mum went with dad
To do all their shopping, until they came back
From our nearest town, I’d stay with Uncle Jack.

He lived up the Lidget, just on Jackson Lane
In a crumbling stone cottage, now bearing his name;
It had only one entrance, as it was back-to-back:
A Spartan existence for my Uncle Jack.

He’d no central heating (We didn’t back then)
At home, we only got it when I was aged ten
So, on Saturday morning, with fingers all black,
To roll up newspapers I helped Uncle Jack.

He had a coal fire, which he needed to start
With newspaper sticks, which were quite an art
To construct from the pile in a sack
Which was kept in the pantry by my Uncle Jack.

Tucked away in the corner of the tiny front room
Behind the square table, out of the gloom,
He’d get out a board, with a hessian back,
Which helped roll the papers for my Uncle Jack.

With a lick of the finger, to start off the stick
We’d start rolling paper, not too slow, not too quick.
To get it just right, not loose and not slack
Was the trick that was taught me by my Uncle Jack.

We’d make several dozen from the Yorkshire Post
To set for the fire, so we could make toast;
It was easy to do, once you had the knack
But I wasn’t as expert as my Uncle Jack.

He’d cover the newspaper sticks in the grate
With firewood. Then it was important to wait
After striking the match to set fire to the stack
For the kindling to catch, said my Uncle Jack.

Once the wood was alight with tendrils of fire
The time came to heap coal higher and higher
One piece at a time, all shiny and black
Carefully placed by my Uncle Jack.

Once the fire was burning and starting to roar
Encouraged by draughts from under the floor
The anthracite blocks would hiss, spit and crack
And warm up the cottage for Uncle Jack.

Then he’d go to the kitchen, in order to bring
Some Wensleydale cheese, my favourite thing;
I hardly could wait until he came back,
For soon I would toast it with my Uncle Jack.

First, a doorstep of bread was hacked off a loaf
With a bone-handled knife, older than us both,
And cremated quite carefully, until not quite black
To go with the cheese brought by Uncle Jack.

He’d leave the coal fire for a moment to burn
After the doorstep was done to a turn;
To hunt for a plate from the old oak delft-rack
Was the next task to do for my Uncle Jack.

After the plate, willow-pattern, was found
My favourite part of the process came round:
As I glanced at the Grandfather clock to keep track
Of the time, creamy cheese was cut by Uncle Jack.

On the rough metal fork we would set the cheese
And carefully hold it, by the hearth, on our knees,
So it didn’t fall off was an important knack
Carefully shown me by my Uncle Jsck.

As the white Wensleydale turned golden brown,
It would soon be time to wolf it all down
With fizzy pop afterwards, brought from the back
Of the larder, ice-cold by my Uncle Jack.

Though now it is quicker with a microwave, grill
Or a swish sandwich-toaster to satisfy my fill
Of toasted-cheese sandwiches, surely a snack
Is not as exciting as was done by Uncle Jack.

I can feel the hot cheese as it melted inside,
Not quite burning my tongue, as my mouth opened wide
And today’s processed food has no savoury smack
Like that hand-toasted titbit made by Uncle Jack.

While today it is easy, a quite simple job,
To turn on the heating with a flick of a knob
Yet I fondly remember, way down history’s track,
Toasting cheese by a coalfire with my Uncle Jack.