Poem: ‘Schmaltz’
Henry Shukman, 20 September 2001
Chicken soup is magic, here’s the proof. Maybe if I’d opened the window a crack it would never have happened. But late in the war, I tip the lid to let the steam off
while the broth reduces to clear gold. Here’s my stove up one end and on the table at the other there’s the new baby, the seventh, the one we didn’t want but he was a boy,
after six girls you...