That Irish Magic by Áine


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What A Fella Will Do For A Good Irish Stew! . . . A house burglar in South London ignored a video recorder, mobile phones and other valuables – but stole a pan of Irish stew. Clare Wilson, from Mitcham, made the dish for the next day's dinner, then left it on her oven and went to bed. The next morning it had vanished, but nothing else had been taken. Ms. Wilson, a mum of four, told The Sun: "I know my cooking is good but this is ridiculous. It's unbelievable someone would just take a stew when all that stuff was lying about the place. I'm considering putting out reward posters asking people if they've seen my stew pot. I've been making stew for over 20 years in that pot, and I'm a bit annoyed. I've got several others, but it was my favourite. It's just the right size for all the family. The thief must have tasted the food first because I found dollops of it around the top of the stove." Ms. Wilson's sons, Brian, 20, and Scott, 19, swear they did not eat the stew after getting in from the pub – they had a kebab on the way home. The back door had been forced open, so Ms. Wilson reported the crime to Mitcham police. She said: "The thief should have just knocked on the door. I'd have invited them along for dinner. There would have been enough for everyone."

That Irish Magic by Áine
(Tune: That Old Black Magic by Harold Arlen and Johnny Mercer –– may they stop spinnin' in their graves long enough to forgive me . . .)

Áine's Comments: OK, here's my take on the situation –– kind of a Romeo and Juliet thing –– Seems to me that Ms. Wilson doth protest too much, so I've written a little ditty for her 'secret admirer':

Your Irish stew it has me its spell,
Your Irish stew that you cook smells so swell,
Down on the street, the scent went through my spine,
My senses addled with the lamb and thyme.

I tingled with lust deep inside my bones,
I knew I had to cross the legal zone,
Up and up I climbed, no care about the time,
An innocent, caught up in a crime.

I should stay away, but what can I do?
One whiff and I'm all in a stew,
A stew with such a burning desire,
Only your pot liquor can put out the fire.

Yours is the dish that I have waited for,
The soup d'jour I was created for,
And every time I dip my tine,
Sweet Clare, oh down each morsel goes, through my tum down to my toes,
In a spin, loving the spin I'm in,
Under that Irish magic called STEW!