Your new prompt word is
EYES
We use this word in many ways. Of course the obvious one is that we use our eyes to see. We also use our eyes to show emotion – surprise or to be flirty, for example. We talk about keeping our eyes peeled, or an eye on something. Then there are plenty of idioms – an eye for an eye, or not being able to take your eyes off someone, for example. We mustn’t forget the third eye or how something is perceived in the eyes of the law. What does this week’s prompt word mean to you?
Fact or fiction, prose or poetry, I would love to read your thoughts on this week’s prompt, but there’s no obligation to share your writing. Here is the work you shared on the last prompt DISH.
Some dishes feed more than hunger. They feed memory.
Identity.
The parts of ourselves that still remember where we come from.
One of my favourite dishes to make is Greek moussaka —though I make it a little differently.
Instead of the traditional version, I use potatoes, layered soft and golden beneath the rich sauce and spices.
Beside it, there is always a good salad with feta cheese, fresh tomatoes, cucumber, olives, and olive oil that tastes like sunshine. And freshly baked bread, still warm enough to steam when broken apart.
The smell alone feels like home.
Cooking has never just been about food to me.
It is ritual.
Comfort.
Love passed hand to hand through generations.
Every dish carries a story.
A country.
A grandmother’s kitchen.
A language spoken through flavour instead of words.
For me, moussaka is more than dinner.
It is a quiet salute to my Greek heritage —
a reminder that roots can live on in the simplest things.
In a recipe.
In shared bread.
In the way certain spices instantly transport you somewhere older than memory itself.
Some dishes fill the stomach.
The special ones fill the soul…
If I was asked what my signature dish was, I would say cheesecake.
My recipe requires no cooking other than melting the butter to mix in the biscuit crumbs. I don’t use extra sugar in the base, neither do I add sugar to the topping, which is fresh cream and soft cream cheese. You can find the recipe here
Take Two
Food again, but this time apple crumble.
I hadn’t been married long and invited my sister and brother in law to Sunday dinner.
Having been given the secret of perfect roast potatoes by a bank customer who became a dear and personal friend until her death in 1997, I cooked roast chicken with all the trimmings, serving the vegetables and potatoes in separate dishes so that everyone could help themselves.
For dessert, I’d made a large traditional apple crumble which we had with cream as I cannot make custard for toffee.
Everyone had enjoyed their dinner, and my BIL had a second helping of pudding. There was enough for him to have thirds and that was his undoing.
He made the mistake of saying how lovely it was, that it was better than my sister’s and she should ask me for the recipe.
Everything changed.
Sis got their coats, and she and her bewildered husband left.
I saw him a week or so later and asked if everything was OK. Apparently Sis hadn’t spoken to him for days afterwards and eventually they’d had a massive argument where he told her to grow up. As far as I know, she never made crumble for him or anyone and I never invited them back.
Fish For Two
I wish I had a fancy dish
on which to put this tasty fish.
I don’t and so this plate will do.
I have two plates. I’ll share with you.
Dishing the Dirt
Happy days and smiling faces for a family get-together.
It feels like an age ago when last the cousins met together.
“Lovely meal Mum. You and Auntie sit. Relax. Leave us to wash up.
“Dads can watch the kids.”
Time for a face-to-face style gossip catch-up.
Posts and emails can’t compete with those, in-person aahs and oohs,
scandalised by someone’s lies, or sharing stories that amuse.
While the washing liquid squirts, wielding tea towels, ears alert,
with tales of tipplers, cheats and flirts,
the family felines dish the dirt.
Susan Batten:
Divine Dishes
Archaeologists enthuse over scraps of ancient pottery as if these dusty remnants were breadcrumbs on the path of history.
Each human society has had its everyday pots and the art of ceramics has gone on to produce dishes fit for kings.
Porcelain is the most highly-prized of these products. Developed and perfected in the Limoges region in France from the late eighteenth century, it became the epitome of elegance in tableware and decorative items.
In the Musée Adrien Dubouché in Limoges, France, 5,000 pieces are on display, part of a much greater collection of some 18,000 items including stoneware and pottery from Antiquity to modern times.
The manufacture of porcelain, like glass and enamel-work in France, has closely followed the artistic trends of the day. The result has been the happy alliance of technique and artistry, which has given the city of Limoges its singular and well-deserved reputation.
In the Trenches?
“Mr. Griffith liked to babble to himself. As if he were talking to a Guarding Angel who was ever present. Though Lorelle did not feel the presence of any other angels. As if to answer her unspoken question, Mr. Griffith spoke while closing his book and putting his pen away… “Oh, me angel that offers my old bones mercy, are ye off aiding a soul more fargone than meself? Have ye sent me a filler ta help guide me ol’ bones back ta me simple supper and duly earned rest?…”
Lorelle kept her distance as she followed the elder man out of the old building and watched him as he carefully locked the door. While it didn’t seem like there was much activity in the old building it had been kept clean. Maybe Mr. Griffith wasn’t the only one with a key? With his slow pace through the cemetery and then down a narrow path through an ancient rock archway into a wooded area he finally led the angel to his small stone cottage.
Lorelle rose above the trees to see where the sanctuary was in relation to the location of the old man’s home and to see if there was any village that would support his simple needs. And was surprised to see about five miles in the distance a valley that seemed to hold a relatively modern, yet small grouping of homes, business and perhaps a more modern place of worship. And there were people actually milling about! Perhaps going home as the sun was setting after a day of work?
There must be more angels about, but Lorelle would have to look for them later, since she only felt her presence near the old man, and didn’t want to leave him alone. She did wonder where his guardian angel might have gone. Lorelle settled in the corner by the small hearth. Mr. Griffith sat at his small table with what looked like a well worn carved wooden trencher type dish. He had served himself some warmed stew or soup from a pot that had hung on a hook that swung into the fire.
After cleaning up after himself, the older man splashed some water on his face. He had hung his cloak on a hook by the door, and then sat comfortably in a more modern looking cushioned chair, and raised his feet on a small stool. His eyes closed and soon he was settled into a deep sleep. The angel Lorelle knew that sometimes elders didn’t need much sleep, so she didn’t have that much time to look at her surroundings. Perhaps Mr. Griffiths’ guardian angel would reappear from their disguise and help fill her in on the old man’s relationship to the village and what his needs were from The Threads and Knots. Surely she, Lorelle, was here for a reason?
Threads And Knots
just one of heaven’s
clean up crews
He laid the dish in front of the potential employer. “What’s this?”
“Carrots, sir.”
“Carrots?”
“Yes sir.”
The employer took a bite. “I can’t believe it.”
“What?”
“These are the best carrots ever.”
“An example of what I can do.”
“You are hired. Uh Mr…”
“Bunny. Bugs Bunny.”
Are you, darling, hungry(ish)?
Then, sweetheart, let me grant your wish
Prepare for you a little dish
I went fishing. Caught a fish
I’ll put it in a frying pan
With sauce poured from a special can
A very special cooking plan
Then I will be your special man
That’s not my only plan, it’s true
I plan to stay for breakfast too
Between times what are we to do?
I’ll leave that last bit up to you.
“… and the dish ran away with the spoon…”
That’s the first thing I though of, that little nursery rhyme.
For a lot of years I did embroidery on plain cotton dish towels.
I would buy (or even draw for myself) little pictures to stamp onto the fabric, then use embroidery floss to ‘draw’ the picture in the thread. I’d give everyone in the family a set of them, usually about 6 each. One year it was nursery rhymes depicted to use from a pattern I bought. This nursery rhyme was one of them…
“Hey diddle diddle the cat and the fiddle – the cow jumped over the moon.
The little dog laughed to see such sport – and the dish ran away with the spoon.
Dishwasher Blues
It really goes beyond my wishes
to have to load the dirty dishes
into the dishwasher each day.
I’d rather read or sleep or play.
But since I know I’ll never meet
a plate or glass or spoon with feet
to walk itself across the floor
and open up the washer’s door,
I guess I’ll have to bite the bullet.
Reach out for the door and pull it.
Load the glasses on the top,
Load the plates so they don’t flop.
Wedge in all I can and then
commit that common loading sin.
I’ll put some plastic cup in last
where it’s not held secure and fast
so it flips over and fills up
with water to top of the cup
so when I open up the door
it soaks the dishes and the floor.
So, though the loading is a curse,
Unloading’s what I hate the worse!!!!
Cold Edges
they said it softly,
as if distance could be kindness,
as if leaving were a gentler way to stay.
but it felt like a door learning how to shut itself,
like warmth deciding it had nowhere left to belong,
like the echo of a name
refusing to come back,
like the memory of a meal
lingering on the tongue long after the table has been cleared.
What a Dish!
There once was a pirate named Bart,
A real 'dish' who was clever and smart.
With a wink of his eye,
And a swagger so spry,
He stole every fine lady's heart.
His coat was buttoned with flair,
The sunlight shone through his hair,
Though he hunted for gold,
The truth must be told -
He's the finest 'main course' on the fare!
Roberta Writes:
The Peahen and the Grey Cat
The Peahen and the Grey Cat lived together
safe within the bird sanctuary’s fence.
They had a lovely home, in the shape of a dome,
there was no need for any defence.
The Peahen looked over her shoulder and said
“I’m so glad you’re my best friend
We have shelter and a comfortable bed
Here the rest of our lives we’ll spend
We’ll spend, we’ll spend
Here the rest of our lives we’ll spend
***
Grey Cat said to the Peahen, “I’m not a peacock
My modest looks verge on being quite dowdy
My tail doesn’t splay, and make a colourful display
And I’m certainly not at all exciting or rowdy
But if I commit to you, I promise I’ll be true,
We’ll can have an agreeable life together”
“Oh Grey Cat,” Peahen cried, “I can’t think of anything better
Than you and I being together forever
Forever
Forever
Than you and I being together forever
***
Just then, a man with a tray appeared
Filling the dishes with delicious treats
There was cream and berries, sardines and cherries
And even a variety of different meats
The two creatures tucked in, with a great big grins,
Dividing the spoils between them evenly
So easy as their tastes greatly varied
They knew they’d share their haven peacefully
Peacefully
Peacefully
They knew they’d share their haven peacefully
Rall:
could relate to the cow jumps over the moon
but the dish ran away with spoon
always perplexed me as a child
never felt comfortable about it
until years later
when this dish ran away with the spoon
and that’s almost 40 years ago now
Ladyleemanila:
As she admires the moon
Prayed a silent wish
With nature she communes
As smooth as swish
Prayed a silent wish
That normal life resumes
Eat out with her dish
To meet friends and her groom
With nature she communes
Crosswalk and bridge go
New routine to attune
With signed hope aglow
As smooth as swish
Stiff and dated rules
Out to catch some fish
With some protection tools
Rohini:
Deep Dish Philosophy
There once lived a king who owned a dish so magnificent that wars had nearly been fought over it.
It was not large. It was not jeweled. It did not sing when struck or glow under moonlight. In fact, it looked suspiciously like an ordinary ceramic plate one might find beneath a stale biscuit in a roadside inn.
But according to the king, this dish possessed “perfect balance.”
Nobody knew what that meant.
The royal philosophers argued it represented harmony between appetite and restraint. The priests claimed it symbolized the universe. The economists insisted it reflected stable grain pricing. One ambitious duke declared the dish proved his bloodline’s divine right to tax mushrooms.
The dish itself remained notably silent on the matter.And every morning, the king ate from it alone. No one else was permitted near it except a trembling servant named Tomas, whose entire profession consisted of carrying the dish from the kitchen to the throne room as though escorting a bomb made of etiquette.
Over time, the kingdom became obsessed with the dish. Poets wrote odes to its curvature. Children played games pretending to be The Bearers of the Sacred Dish, which mostly involved dropping bowls and blaming cousins.
A black market emerged selling counterfeit replicas known as “Dishlets,” many of which were simply upside down chamber pots painted white.
Naturally, the neighboring kingdoms grew jealous. Spies infiltrated the palace disguised as cheese merchants. Assassins hid in soup carts. One man spent six years posing as a decorative fern just to glimpse the dish during luncheon.
Finally, an invading emperor crossed the mountains with ten thousand soldiers demanding surrender of “the object of immeasurable wisdom.”
The king refused. So war arrived.
Villages burned. Rivers filled with helmets. Entire generations vanished because powerful men had become emotionally attached to tableware.
And then, on the seventh day of battle, while Tomas hurried through the palace corridor carrying the sacred dish to safety, he slipped on a grape.
History, it turns out, is often redirected by fruit. The dish flew upward. Everyone watched.The king screamed. The generals gasped. A monk fainted in advance.
And the dish shattered upon the marble floor into seven uneven pieces. Silence consumed the hall. The king fell to his knees beside the fragments. For the first time in decades, he truly looked at the thing.
It was… cheap.
Underneath the glaze was a stamp from a potter in a distant village. “Third quality clay,” it read.
There was a pause so profound one could hear the empire reconsidering itself. Then Tomas, still lying on the floor beside the fatal grape, began laughing.
The sort of laughter that erupts from a man whose soul has finally torn open like badly stitched trousers.
Soon others joined him. A guard snorted. A priest wheezed. One diplomat laughed so violently he temporarily solved his lifelong constipation.
Within minutes, the hall echoed with hysterics. Because suddenly everyone saw it:
The wars.
The ceremonies.
The philosophies.
The funerals.
All built around a plate.
And yet, here was the strange part – the dish had not truly been worthless.
For years it had gathered the kingdom’s hunger into one visible shape. Their vanity, ambition, faith, fear, longing for meaning, all of it had rested there each morning beside roasted eggs and figs.
The dish had not contained truth. It had contained them. That night the war ended. The invading emperor stayed for supper. The philosophers retired in embarrassment. Tomas was promoted to Royal Minister of Walking Carefully.
And in the center of the table sat the shattered pieces of the dish, glued back together badly, cracks zigzagging across its face like little rivers on an old map.
Nobody worshipped it anymore.
Oddly enough, that was the first day it became beautiful.
dish
it she said
to her asst
and so the thing
was ribald
and ridiculous too!
***
Esther Chilton 
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