A Christmas Dinner’s a glorious thing,
With all the trimmings, but
It won’t make the rafters ring
Without this splendid nut.
“Roast them on an open fire”
In a special pan,
My darling went and bought me one,
So I’m glad to say, I can.
It may be hard to pick them,
Because the burrs are spiky,
But this does not deter me,
Because my friends me likey!
Eat them either cooked or raw,
Or in a sweet purée,
I swear that you’ll be back for more,
Or for a nice marron glacé?
What’s my favourite spot in France?
The town, Collibrieres,
Why? Because the chestnut,
Is all they grow and sell right there!
Chestnuts
10 Friday May 2013
Posted in poetry
Caro Field Author 
Oh my. What wonderful memories you brought back. I have spent plenty of time in my mom’s hometown of Cheltenham and well remember chestnut trees and the chestnuts below them. She told me how my grandfather and his friends would drill holes in them, tie a string through and have some sort of knock out competition…. I can just picture little Edwardian dressed boys doing this sort of thing!
Ah! That is a horse chestnut or conked, not the edible variety
Sorry, conker!
So that is where we get our chestnuts. I loved Christmas time in New York when I lived there for the very reason that venders were roasting chestnuts on almost every corner, so you could buy then hot from the coals,
Aren’t they gorgeous! It’s the same in London at Christmas
Great poem – hope you’re feeling better!
Thanks Carol