a Poem for Mag 129

A Dinner Table at night 1884 John Singer Sargent.

Many thanks to Willow at Mag 129  for this prompt.
I had just read an article in the Saturday Guardian about when dinner actually occured.
It seems to depend on whether you are a northerner or a southerner.
Working, middle or upper class here in England
We had dinner at midday in Belfast and tea, not as in afternoon tea, for we often also had that!...but as in at 6.00  early evening.
That was sometimes the main meal of the day and sometimes just a light meal.
 

The Dinner Party

I‘m never sure what I should wear.

The velvet with my upcombed hair,

The silver lame evening gown.

To dress it up or dress it down.

For what is dinner now I ask

Is dinner lunch, or is that passed?

Is dinner five in’t afternoon

When family’s home from work and schooling?

Or should one wait ‘til half past nine

To eat one’s fill, to sit and dine.

Confusion is the very word

I’ve often seen it writ or heard..

That one can turn up ill- prepared

For beans on toast or pasta whirls.

When all along you thought it would

Be consommé and gourmet food.

Blest, best,  of all, the family,

Who wear their clothes with easy ways.

Or friends who laugh at all my jokes.

Say “scrumptious” to the cheese on toast,

Ask,”how’s the kids?” and “are you well?”

And ,”isn’t this year’s summer - hell?”

And when they’ve gone their laughing way

To home and hearth, to work or play,

To stack the dishes in the sink.

Raise glass and “toast” and have a drink.

I’ll pack away the velvet dress

The lame  with pretentiousness.

The consume`, the lobster bisque,

The sinking soufflé, stinking fish.

The game terrine with gamey chips

Their taste that lingers on your lips.

That conversation so polite

With talk, to quench your  appetite.

So, feed me at a table round.

With children’s chatter, family sounds.

With heated subjects bandied round

Where food and drink and love abounds

And there I’ll dine, I’ll lunch, I’ll sup,

And drink my overflowing cup.