Time in the kitchen, particularly that spent making rhubarb crumble and feijoa crumble, has kindled some memories of yore for Wyn Drabble. Photo / File
Time in the kitchen, particularly that spent making rhubarb crumble and feijoa crumble, has kindled some memories of yore for Wyn Drabble. Photo / File
As I wrote a few weeks ago, we have upped our game in the kitchen during lockdown. But we already know that culinary standards will take a nosedive as we draw closer to normal life.
Our mise en place has been exemplary but, of course, has also been a majorusurper of time. "Take a haunch of boar and marinate it in red wine and aromatics for seven days, turning frequently" – that sort of thing.
Yes, I exaggerate but in a normal working day there is not even time to make real soups, proper roasted vegetables or – and here's the biggie – desserts! I even found time to make thrice-cooked (once boiled, twice fried) chunky chips. In the real world, such things are the stuff of dreams.
But the time in the kitchen, particularly that spent making rhubarb crumble and feijoa crumble, has kindled some memories of yore. Tastes have triggered memories of long-gone flavours which may well still exist but no longer play a part in our culinary life.
I was reminded, for example, of the feeling of full-cream milk powder stuck to the roof of my mouth. Yes, I would eat it by the spoonful from the pack (tin?) and I enjoyed the roof challenge. You can see I was easily pleased as a child.
Maltexo was another treat administered by spoon. There were only two of us boys in those early days but such was the pulling power of "malt" that we couldn't queue up in an orderly fashion while clutching our spoons; we simply had to fan out for fear of being second.
I have never had "malt" in adulthood but remember a very viscous caramel-toffee-fudge-butterscotch vibe which rendered it an occasional treat only. It was kept in the pantry and I believe I can, hand on heart, say I never sneaked in and took some.
The same cannot be said of reduced cream in a tin.
Our grocer used to deliver in a Dinky Toy van and one of the treats he brought was broken biscuits in a brown paper bag. Somebody – possibly OSH – would probably frown on this practice today but there certainly were good savings to be had over whole unblemished biscuitry.
Wyn Drabble
Can you still buy ice cream sandwiches? A slab of ice cream between two delicate pink wafers introduced us deliciously to the concept of texture contrast, something which we could put to good use if we ever wanted to enter MasterChef.
Eskimo pies weren't half bad either though, if they still exist, have probably suffered a name change.
I suppose animal biscuits are still available. They were an integral part of kids' birthday parties and though it was hard to tell an amphibian from a horned ruminant, the combination of biscuit and pastel-coloured icing rendered identification unnecessary.
There were always biscuit tins (in case visitors popped in?) and the mother of one of my friends used to produce from her tins something which I have never seen since. It was called Chinese Chew and all I can remember is dried fruit held together by stickiness. There might have been candied ginger involved. I loved it.
Threepence (or thruppence) would buy you a packet of Aulsebrooks Smokers Cachous, diminutive pink pellets which went a long way if you needed to share. For hygiene reasons they were not recommended for lolly scrambles.
But I think my favourite was bread. Not just bread per se but the bit where two loaves joined. When pulled apart they revealed a textured area that was to die for. I would pick at it while walking home from the shop and, when home, guiltily hand over the crust cave I had created.
