December nineteen forty-two,
party planned, but what to do ─
rations gone, no sugar, no butter,
no sweet delight to ice the cake
Mum had begged and bartered
the wherewithal to bake.
In the garden, not much to gather ─
potatoes, onions, parsnips.
Parsnips are sweet mashed to a lather.
Solution found, the cake is iced
without telling a soul.
Games played with shrieks of delight,
wartime party tea a wonderful sight
Candles blown out, cake demolished
in seconds, declared a triumph
against adversity, relished
but never repeated.
Zany Miz Quickly gave us the line “Passing on the Mother. How can you not use a line like that somehow?” I swithered and moithered, fossicking in my memory before coming up with the true story of my fifth birthday.