Goulash.(Poem)

 
GOULASH 
 
   A crucial ingredient is the right frame of mind 
   so abandon all ideas of getting on. Stop pedalling, 
   dismount, go indoors and give yourself masses of time. 
   Then begin by heating a pool of oil in a frying pan 
   and, Mrs. Beeton style, take a dozen onions 
   even though the space you're working in is smaller 
   than the scullery in a Victorian mansion. Pull off 
   the papery wrappings and feel the shiny globes' solidity 
   before you chop. Fry the segments in three batches. 
   Don't fuss about weeping eyes, with a wooden spoon 
   ease the pieces as they turn translucent and gold. 
   When you've browned but not burnt the cubes of beef 
   marry meat and onions in a deep pan, bless the mixture 
   with stock, spoonfuls of paprika, tomato puree 
   and crushed garlic. Enjoy the Pompeian-red warmth. 
   Outside, the sun is reddening the pale afternoon 
   and you'll watch as it sinks behind blurring roofs, 
   the raised arms of trees, the intrepid viaduct. 
   In the kitchen's triumph of colour and light the meat 
   is softening and everything in the pot is seeping 
   into ...