My mum cannot stand the smell

and forbids it in her kitchen.


When she leaves home

for a weekend away,


I buy five bulbs from Tesco

hide them in the highest cupboard


and cook them.


The feeling of mischief

when I crush each clove

with the flat of the knife


and scatter the tiny slices

into casseroles and Bolognaise,

dinner after dinner,


salad after salad


is pungent.



This is how a 24-year-old rebels.