‘If you were lucky, you got a bit of coleslaw too,’ Mum says, now giggling.
‘Who could forget? Thick chunky cabbage, half a grated carrot and a jar full of mouldy mayonnaise. Gourmet, Jude. Gourmet.’
‘Oh, you did all right!’
I dream of publishing a cookbook that I will dedicate to Jude. It will simply say: ‘For my mother, who taught me how not to cook.’
Mum graduated from the BII Culinary Institute (for the uninitiated, that’s also known as the ‘Bung It In’ School of Cookery), with a Masters of the That’ll Do Method.
I have a vague recollection of being offered – in my youth – the choice of having my baked dinners whole or mashed. The latter meant it was all slopped in together and became practically impossible to discern any individual ingredient. This probably coincided with Glen’s refusal to eat stage, which always resulted in Mum making a fake call to ‘The Boys’ Home’ for his immediate collection. It’s no wonder he has a self-diagnosed persecution complex.
‘Well, everyone is out to get you, Glen,’ I tell him.
With Mum’s natural culinary passion, flair for flavours and demand for only the ‘freshest’ ingredients, I shouldn’t be surprised that her skills later in life rival that of the average three-year-old. Her repertoire consists mainly of those dishes I outlawed when I took over the cooking at the age of ten or eleven – an event for which she was over the moon, though I think my father and brothers were most excited by the change in chef. Mind you, she was taught cooking a while back, long before this generation’s bizarre tendency for food worship, and where the posting to social media of even a Vegemite sandwich is hailed as a culinary masterpiece judging by the four thousand comments that follow:
Yummo!
Looking good, Britnee!
You’re so clever in the kitchen, Britters!
Cook for me anytime LOL!
No, for many of our mothers, food was merely sustenance. Ingredients were what was readily available in corner stores or (later) supermarkets, and recipe books were consulted for only very special occasions: once, maybe twice a year.
Given my parents’ myriad health problems now though, you’d think they would pay more attention to what they put into their bodies. But like those kids who only eat white foods, refuse to eat anything green, or insist on drowning everything in tomato sauce, my parents simply don’t care enough about food to give what they’re eating a second’s thought.
When you open their fridge it is literally full to the brim with sugary treats – chocolates, lollies, cookies, biscuits, ice cream, cordial, cakes, soft drink, white bread, sauces, pickles, jams . . . you name it. As the little fat kid I was, I would have given everything to have our fridge stocked like that. If you removed all the sugar from the items in their fridge you’d be left with glass, plastic and chemical additives. The weird thing is, I rarely see my parents eat this stuff and yet, every time I visit, the fridge is stocked to overflowing with new purchases. Unsurprisingly, you’ll never find a chocolate out of date.
Given their health, you’d think their fridge would be full of fresh vegetables. As Dad says to anyone who’ll spare him thirty seconds of their time, ‘I love me veggies.’ Though, by ‘veggies’ he means deep-fried high-starch things that grow underground!
We must all be stereotypes of a sort, because when the lovely waitress in the pub brings out our meals, she knows where to put each just by looking at us.
‘Don’t you have any pepper and salt in this place?’ Dad asks.
A few minutes later she returns with sachets of salt and pepper, which Dad looks at questioningly. Multiple packets of salt are torn open and their contents are sprinkled over every visible chip. The pepper is discarded.
‘Boy!’ Mum proclaims.
‘What?’
‘I’ll never eat all this.’ She’s right, she never does – even though she usually orders an entrée instead of a main.
Dad takes a generous carving of his steak and places it in his mouth, followed by a shot of lemon squash.
I remember watching my dad eat baked dinners – his mouth full of lamb, potato and mint jelly – and, miraculously, he would find room for a huge chunk of margarine-laden white bread followed by a mouthful of sugary white tea, all to be mushed up inside his mouth. It never ceased to surprise me just how quickly Dad ate, and still does to this day. It’s the ‘recently released from prison’ way of gobbling. Maybe it’s because, as a kid, he had to fight off his siblings, or maybe he believed that each meal would be his last because it was all his family could afford.
Still, I can’t be too critical. Sometimes, when I’m eating alone, I see myself from afar and I’m embarrassed – mortified really – at how quickly I eat. This hurry to feel stuffed is one of the more unfortunate things I seem to have inherited from Dad. I tend to police myself when eating out or in front of others, but one night I forgot to and a friend of ours remarked at how desperately I was shoving things in my mouth. It was a sober reminder of this habit of mine and it niggles away at me whenever I watch my father eating. I wonder how different his health would be had he trained himself out of it decades ago. A dietician friend of mine informed me (probably after watching me stuff my face) that eating too quickly can lead to obesity, diabetes, heart disease, stroke and gastritis.
* * *
‘What will we have for dinner tonight, darl?’ Dad asks, midchew.
‘I think I’ll be having leftover this,’ Mum says.
‘What?’
‘LEFTOVERS. THIS.’
‘Oh, you’re all right then!’
‘Helga’s going to be one happy pig tonight!’ I say, motioning to the huge piles of chips that Jeff and I are meant to finish.
‘She won’t eat squid, will she?’ Mum offers, looking mournfully at the size of her meal.
‘No, no meat,’ Jeff reminds her.
We each happily tuck into our meals but, like his mother-in-law, Jeff generally picks around his. And, like my father’s, mine is all gone rather too quickly.
Attention Twilight Waters Residents:
Please be reminded that family visiting time is taking place in the Gladys McTavish Marquee this Sunday from 10am.
Entry to the bouncing castle is strictly forbidden for all residents.
Thank You,
Management
