Povey Prattle

How could I have omitted other wonderful “afters”. Tinned peaches or apricots with evaporated milk were not bad. Jelly (Jello) and Custard were never a favourite of mine, even if the Jelly contained Mandarin oranges (from a tin [can]) I liked blancmange even less! (look it up on Google). It is pronounced blah monge. My best friend Jeff Davies was a great tease, and knowing how much I disliked this dessert, would call me “monger”. Trifle was a rare treat. Even now I sometimes make it for guests, but it takes quite a while. You’ve just “gotta” have sherry on those lady fingers. And fresh fruit (raspberries and strawberries) work better than the frozen type. Mum and my two older sisters would make the best Christmas Puddings, and Christmas Cake (sans Brandy) in mid-November. Americans call Christmas Pudding “Plum Pudding” and serve it with white sauce, but ours was always served with “Birds” Custard. We ate it with care, for who knew, there might be a silver thrup-knee bit hi...

Sunday roast was a must. Always meat, potatoes, gravy and two veggies. We’d buy a joint of meat on Saturdays - leg or loin of pork, rolled beef brisket, sirloin of beef, or shoulder or leg of lamb. Mum would prepare the meal on Sunday mornings, cutting up vegetables, par-boiling the spuds, and slowly roasting the meat as we went to Church. Joints had much more fat, and after Church, Mum would set the par-boiled spuds alongside the meat in the roasting pan, maybe with some par-boiled parsnips too, and baste them with the fat until they were crispy on the outside, and fluffy inside. The parsnips would caramelise. Veggies were Savoy cabbage, or broad beans (fava beans) , or brussels sprouts, or cauliflower. Peas of course in abundance. If we were eating beef Mum would make Yorkshire puddings, baking them in cake tins so that they were served like American popovers. But you need good hot fat to make the real thing! We didn’t have dessert. We had “afters” . Afters might be rice ...

I’ve been hanging my hat at two parishes. First at St. David’s, Englewood , where I help out twice a month. Second at St. Boniface, here in SRQ . I was not at all impressed with St. B’s on my first visit, but have grown to like it. St. Boniface, with our Bishop’s permission, had invited Bishop Gene Robinson to give a series of lectures next January. I was overjoyed, both for the Gospel message which Bishop Robinson gives and lives, and because he and I have been friends for about 25 years. We made plans to have lunch next January. Then our Bishop, succumbing we believe to conservative pressure , has asked Bishop Gene Robinson to withdraw his consent to St. Boniface’s invitation. I heard about this earlier today. I like our Bishop . His name is (The Rt. Revd.) Dabney T. Smith. He was pretty cool with me when I met him in order to be licenced to serve in the Diocese of South West Florida. I “outed myself” as a gay Priest, and it seemed to be “no problem” to him”. So I felt pissed...

At aged 9 my twin and I left Greenbank Infants’ School and moved up to Eastville Junior Mixed School. I was placed in Mr. Richards' class. On my first day he asked “who knows how the alphabet got its name?” Up shot my hand to give the correct answer. Henceforth I was one of his favourites. Mr. Richards led a school choir. I sang of course, and was introduced to the treasure trove of British folk songs, and to the classics. Mrs. Richards played the piano, and I remember singing Shubert’s “The Trout”. The BBC came to audition us, and I was chosen, with a couple of others, to introduce our pieces. I struggled with the name “Mozart”. We were chosen as the first Junior School ever to broadcast in Great Britain, and we recorded our music in the old Bristol Empire Theatre, “down Old Market”. Glory! One morning I was refused permission to use the toilet. I wet my trousers, there and then in the classroom. At lunch time I ran all the way home, tears streaming down my face. For...

My friend T died yesterday. He and I are/were about the same age. His death came too soon after Bruce’s death on Oct 2nd. I first met T about ten years ago. I was a candidate for the Rectorship of a Parish in Ft. Myers, FL, and he was on the Search Committee. He was one of the two token liberals from an otherwise very conservative Parish. I withdrew from that search, and it was just as well. Soon after they called a new Rector, the other liberal ran away with a prominent parish member. She and he have never been heard of since. But T and I stayed in touch through the years. And we were each delighted when I retired to this neck of the woods last year. The Rector whom they called is a most generous man. He asked me to “supply” for him earlier this summer, which I was honoured to do. That I did and T and I had a lovely lunch after service. T was one of the saddest people I’ve ever met. Through a combination of a miserable up-bringing, some bad choices, and some rotten luck...

After seeing Manatees at Apollo Beach I wish I were a Manatee Decked out in lovely gray. If I could be a Manatee My cares would wash away Down through the channel, cross the beach, out to the ocean blue. If I could be a Manatee, then you could be one too. After a Mexican Dinner at St. Boniface Church Mexican Hats were the table centre-pieces. My table companion Adrien Swain writes ditties, and he and I wondered if we could each write one including the words "Mexican Hats". This is my effort. I’ve seen Mexican mats, and Mexican cats, and Mexican hats by the score. But none can compare with the Mexican fare. at St. Boniface Church near the shore. Reflecting on one of my character defects. He proffered advice, whether wanted or not. That people have minds he often forgot. He spewed forth opinions By the thousands and millions. Which mostly were sheer "tommy rot". ----------------------------------------------------

Voting in Florida is a bit complicated. First you have to show a picture I.D., and sign a sheet affirming your address and identity. That enables you to receive a “chit” which you take to another desk. You sign that “chit” and then receive a ballot to complete for the optical scanner. The woman ahead of me at that second desk was displeased. She had been handed a felt tip pen to sign her name, and she let it be known in no uncertain terms that she hated felt tips, and that no-one would ever recognise her signature.. The volunteer clerk was a cheerful as a person could be, but despite all his efforts, the woman was determined to be displeased. I bit my tongue, and when my turn came, I told the volunteer that I liked felt tips. It was a bold face lie. I am a fountain pen man, but I wanted to encourage him in his good cheer. “Why” , I wondered, “ would a person get so bent out of shape about a pen”? “What about the wars in Iraq and Afghanistan?” I There’s something about which I...