LINDSAY WOODS: The Chinese takeaway we order from does not even require a name or address from us any longer
A few weeks ago, I uploaded the following post on Instagram which read as:
“Kids: We’re hungry.
Me: You can have an apple or banana because your dinner of kale is almost ready.
Also me: Secretly eats a bag of sour worms, fistful of Doritos with an M&M chaser all washed down with a can of fizzy pop.”
The caption underneath the post read,
“Stop judging me Janet. I see you making love to that tube of Pringles.”
The DMs began to ‘ping’ almost immediately.
Assurances of solidarity from others of, ‘I do this too!’ along with their preferred location for consuming illicit processed confections (the utility room was the undisputed champion) poured in.
Amongst these, were also some concerns as to when and how we became so preoccupied with monitoring each and every morsel that our children ingest?
Along with our admission that, as adults, we are bonified hypocrites in regard to our consumption of said contraband.
As a child, monosodium glutamate and E numbers were not a dominant issue on the home front due to one simple fact — accessibility. When they began to trickle into our supermarkets in the form of Frosties, Angel Delight and Findus pancakes it was looked upon warily by our parents the land over.
In most part, due to the exorbitant price of same. The weekly big shop budget did not lend itself to impulse purchases from the newly-installed freezer aisle. But as the demand for such delicacies began to increase, so too did the supply and competitive pricing. As did the volume of our pleas directed at our parents.
My most prominent memories in relation to food do indeed revolve around fresh produce; mackerel frying in the pan spitting and hissing darts of butter, served with boiled potatoes and another generous dollop of creamy yellow goodness.
My husband has a similar recollection: digging the new potatoes with his Grandad before they were scrubbed, boiled and served with lashings of butter and salt which you ate until your belly ached for respite.
This is not some fictitious tableau for Fáilte Ireland’s latest marketing campaign: “Visit Ireland, where we dig our spuds from the ancient soil of the land”; this was how things were. And to a large extent, still are.
Yet, intermingled with these snippets of what some of you may determine as culinary hyperbole are those of when my mother finally conceded and produced one evening the object of all of my pleading: Angel Delight.
It is impossible to convey the sheer and utter joy on seeing the fluffy, baby pink substance with a halo of tinned mandarins being placed triumphantly on the table by the matriarch.
As a final flourish, she produced a Cadburys Flake and with a deft wallop of her hand, pulsed it into chocolate sprinkles which poured forth from its yellow wrapper to tickle the blushing mousse. As the first bite fizzed and dissipated on our tongues, I prayed silently to the high priestess, Judy Blume, to allow my mother the conviction to continue on this new path. It worked. The following week she produced a ‘Romantica’.
Nowadays, all of the above is not just frowned upon but glaringly sneered at. Why do we put so much pressure and allow others to do so when it comes to the topic of food?
Ask yourself, honestly, at the end of a long day do you fantasise about cooking an elaborate meal? Or do you just want to shove something beige in the oven and top it with a tin of beans all washed down with a G&T? I know which one I prefer. Similarly, I have derived equal pleasure from slaved over sustenance.
We know what is good for us in relation to nourishment. But it does not mean that we crave the comfort of preservatives any less when the going gets rough.
For shame, that the neighbours may see our empty pizza boxes poking from the bin on collection day. Or that someone may learn that the Chinese takeaway we order from does not even require a name or address from us any longer. The horror of it all.
But here’s the thing, like most instances in life, you can still eat a Pot Noodle and have convictions. In an age where we are presented daily with wellness experts extolling the merits of fastidious diets is it any real wonder we turn to a pot of dehydrated noodles for solace?
So, for what it’s worth, here’s my two cents: Don’t forget about those glorious spuds but equally don’t let you, or Janet, beat yourself up over serving up Potato Waffles every now and again.
Or a nausea-inducing, pink-hued mousse. The kids will be alright and most definitely, so will we.
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