The Soup Reverend Goss Insists On (Cock-a-leekie)

Lyrics

[Intro]
In the parsonage kitchen, on a winter afternoon in 1905,
Mrs. A. W. Baker's words simmer in my mind.

[Verse 1]
The cast-iron pot, dented on one side, on the iron stove,
blackened from years, heavy as Reverend Goss's insistence.
I joint the chicken with the cleaver, rusted at the hinge,
old rooster from the yard, feathers still damp from the morning mist.
Leeks, cut small, tied in twine on the oak table,
scarred from a hundred suppers.
Boil him well, she wrote, with a little salt.

[Chorus]
Cock-a-leek-ie,
every syllable like a bubble rising,
cock-a-leek-ie,
chicken and leeks in golden broth,
flecks of fat dancing on the surface.
Prunes for sweetness, one per bowl,
a conversation starter, F. Marian McNeill said in 1929.

[Verse 2]
The kitchen steams, eighty degrees, sharp tang of leeks
cutting through the meaty warmth, around four p.m.
as light fades outside the window.
I stir with the wooden ladle, chipped handle smooth in my palm,
watch the barley soften, the prunes plump.
Reverend Goss will insist on this Scots name,
pronounce it full, no shortcuts, like a prayer over the pot.

[Bridge]
In Lady Clark of Tillypronie's book, edited by Catherine Frances Frere,
the recipe lives, passed down without the maids' names,
their hands stirring in the gaps of the record.
But here, in our parsonage, I say it clear:
cock-a-leek-ie, warm as the steam on my skin.

[Outro]
Served scalding, two hundred degrees,
a quirky detail to elicit surprise at the table.
Cock-a-leek-ie, Reverend's favorite,
simmering in the cast-iron heart of the kitchen.