You would think someone whose first degree is Economics would be able to manage loan repayments. Alas, no. I recently refinanced a mortgage and, in my enthusiasm, over-paid initial amounts. I managed to leave myself with $33 per day disposable income for 16 days. I am four days in, $6 down and thinking of dropping two cats off at the park. I am hoping there is no insurance AP lurking and am barely driving for fear of a fender bender (or having to fill the tank). I know I could find some temporary funds (I don’t have a credit card) and clearly I can normally feed myself and helped provide for three kids growing up. But it is an interesting exercise and it has reminded me of my childhood and so I have included a second chapter of the wee memoirish – novel thing I have written. There is a kicker at the end re current society.
Metonym for my Parents: The food they cooked
My parents loved me. They were pretty basic and strong supporters of the nation’s cigarette and alcohol industries. They had grown up in incredibly tough times. Times completely inconceivable in the 21st century. It is enough to say that my mother was born into a family in which she eventually had 11 siblings. She was born in 1934 during the Great Depression into a State House in a poor suburb (Aramoho) in a poor town (Wanganui). World War 2 followed. The man that later adopted me as his own left school before 14 and could never really explain much of his past.
However, they had character and, as I said, they loved me. They smoked liked chimneys and drank like fish. They were sometimes angry and stressed but they were never violent and supported me as best they knew how. Which must have been hard as I never really slowed down – or shut up. They tried so hard to shape someone well but being a parent in the generationally split 1970s and 80s was not easy. Neither was I. I must add that they both often worked two or three jobs to make ends meet and it is now deeply appreciated. They refused the dole when unemployed.
The food they cooked is highly symbolic of the time. In hindsight it seemed terrible – but it got us through. A mark of the times for the lower class in New Zealand. What child would eat lambs fry today? Bubble and squeak anyone?
The first note was the attitude. You ate what was put in front of you and, at times, learned not to gag. In fact, the most common saying was not “grace” but my father saying that you will “sit up, shut up, eat up and like it.” This was followed by discussions about starving children in Africa and the need to chew each mouthful, even milk, forty times. No even kidding. A friend of mine was chided about leaving food on his plate and the plight of the starving children in Biafra. He turned to his mother and glared, held up the plate and said, “Well send this bloody muck to them then.” It did not turn out well for him.
My mother’s lambs-fry you could not help to chew forty times – it could not be swallowed otherwise. In hindsight maybe that was the way it was cooked which was until there was less moisture in the product than on any single grain of sand in the Sahara. The vegetables alongside were boiled to the hilt. My mother also had a knack with bacon. She could turn a rich piece of this meat into a crumbling autumn leaf with the taste of charcoal. One of her specialties therefore was lambs fry and bacon. Something special indeed. Often, while trying to chew, your eyes watered involuntarily, and you gulped down milk to try and begin the digestion process. I had pure gratitude – no doubt.
A range of beans were also “good for you”. This included a never to be forgotten jar of beans that my mother had soaked in salt water for two weeks – for no good reason. Preventing these coming back up rapidly involved deep breathes and, again, tears rolling down the face. This mix was only done once as my mother did have a sympathetic bone.
Broad beans were the ongoing worst. My mother was somehow convinced of their inherent and necessary goodness and tried all manner of methods to ensure they were in our diet. We protested, so she hid them in her already disgraceful mashed potatoes. Bangers and mash with the most disgusting after taste that no quantity of tomato sauce could alleviate. Her mashed potatoes had more lumps than the fields they came from and hiding broad beans in the mix seemed fool-proof – except for perceptive nature of a child’s palate. This also only happened once, again, on the basis of justice.
I cannot even bring myself to write a paragraph on her steak and kidney pie.
My father’s food contribution was not negligible either. He could deep fry almost anything that he deemed edible (and many things I did not). Going back to the time I first met my beautiful bride I was working for my father. His job was delivering dairy products. The scheme he devised to improve the family’s finances (and we needed it) was to bring home all of the drinks and yogurt that had passed their due date. “Just scrape the mold off!”; he would say.
Does this have any impact? Yes – but good things do not need to come from what the world would call a perfect platform – and the next two generations have stood on their shoulders.
My children were not immune from the gourmet skills of my parents either. They are unlikely to ever forget the time that my mother chose to extend her repertoire by purchasing a well-constructed McCain’s pizza from the supermarket. She then cooked it to the same level of moisture as was her way with lamb’s fry. This was to the extent that the base was a deep black and all topping tasted and looked like indistinct coloured cardboard. The children, maybe being brought up in more affluent and varied times, flatly refused to eat it and caused a month-long family feud as my mother took deep offense at the actions of the “spoilt brats”. My bride and I had been smarter as when my mother looked the other way, we threw our pizza out of the window and smacked out lips as if deeply satisfied.
Ray and Judy have long since passed.
The Kicker!
If we are going to feed children in NZ schools it must have three features:
- The effects need to be monitored with regards to attendance and achievement.
- The time period much be limited. We should never have go to this situation in a rich nation in 2023.
- It must be deeply understood and communicated daily to students, families and staff that “We are feeding you today – so that you can get a good education and then feed, clothe and house your own children.
Anything less than that is simply not acceptable. If I taken all that my parents did for me – and not found my own way – it would have been a disgrace.
