Liverpool Stories
Do the mash
By
John Williams
I was reflecting today about the changes in food that I have encountered over the years. They have been so numerous I can safely assert that the only staples I havent tried are the type that surgeons inflict on the stomachs of obese clients whose assaults on their own digestive systems are so life threatening that they require the surgical equivalent of block-ships to halt the flow of food down the alimentary canal.
A quick perusal of my food cupboards reveals many varieties of rice. I can see long grain, Basmati, Arborio and a packet of Thai fragrant rice. There is even a tub of Muller rice that my boys enjoy as a pudding!
But I am old enough to remember when the only occasion that ordinary people ate rice was at school lunch and even then the real pleasure lay not in the taste of the glutinous mass, but in the visual delights afforded by the fractals that could be obtained by dint of swirling around the mandatory blob of plum jam that sat atop the pudding like a smouldering Icelandic volcano.
There are also enough varieties of pasta to open a trattoria. I have tried conchiglie, but abandoned them as the shell shapes held water for so long that by the time I had drained them I was serving an Arctic version of the Sicilian dish, Cavolfiore con conchiglie.
Fusilli, farfalle and radiatori, along with my childhood favourite of macaroni, have, like short lived butterflies, made their appearance at some time or other, but in the end it is the straightforward spaghetti that my children prefer.
On those days between Setzuan chicken and rice or spaghetti Bolognese I have delivered food wrapped in Mexican tortillas, Indian parathas, chapattis and puris, French baguettes, Italian ciabatas, Chinese char sui bao and of course burgers, all reminders that what ever our ethnic self identification we all eat what are essentially sandwiches.
I spot a polythene bag of potatoes and suddenly I am reminded of the part the humble spud has played in my gastronomic odyssey.
It is a fact that in Britain the potato has fallen behind in the culinary stakes as many people who are eager to emulate the super models of this world have largely abandoned carbohydrates in favour of low calorie air and watercress soup.
Yet I can remember the days when the pink complexioned King Edward potatoes were the true aristocrats of the dining table.
In those far off days chips, fries or pomme fritte as they are now variously called, were served as small helpings that barely filled the shallow paper bags which resembled the jaunty little caps worn by burger vendors and other fast food operatives.
Astonishingly the seemingly meagre helpings were considered sufficient for a grown up persons meal. I say astonishingly given that nowadays a portion of chips from a fish and chip shop is so large that it resembles a Beaver lodge during the dry season. Small wonder then, that those who cant afford watercress are now assuming the appearance of Hippos.
In the fifties my aunt Alice was a caretaker tenant on a large farm and every year I would attempt to obtain much needed cash by picking potatoes.. I was a child at the time and so my contribution mainly consisted of having to be rescued when my feet disappeared into the yielding black soil that had been rendered into quick sand by the churning of the tractor.
There was, for me at least, a peculiar thrill in seeing the white and oddly pearlescent potatoes suddenly unearthed as the tractor blades parted the soil. Their skins had not yet hardened and calloused and so were soft and moist to the touch; a bit like new born babies.
Above our heads wheeled squadrons of gulls that followed the tractor and dived to devour the exposed worms while we flightless mortals swooped on the gleaming potatoes.
Those very potatoes had a good chance of being sold locally and so there is every chance that one of them was the cause of my tasting a culinary delight that has never in my life time been replicated.
It came about because there was a family in my road that boasted, if that is the right word, fourteen children. Now their dwelling possessed a very small living room and an even smaller kitchen so you can imagine the logistical problems of feeding that particular multitude. Nobody, apart from old Tommy, the rather stern and often drink sizzled patriarch, ate sitting down.
Instead, the children lined up in the back garden, according to size, and food, still steaming and spitting was passed back to the smallest member.
On day, after a game of cricket, I found myself standing in the canteen queue talking to my friend Eddie when suddenly a voice cried catch! and I instinctively held on to a roasted potato that was so hot I spontaneously learned to juggle as I desperately tossed it to from one hand to the other.
When it had cooled enough to bite into the golden lattice of the salt encrusted wedge I tasted heaven in the form of a fluffy cloud of potato perfection.
That memory remains with me to this day in spite of an avalanche of potato based meals that have followed.
It is only Monday , but perhaps a Sunday roast is in order or a chip butty
05/11/2007