The time we invited Mother to dinner

The time we invited Mother to dinner, was not an event that either of us wanted to repeat.

Not that it was a particular occasion, for example Christmas, and on reflection, was probably just as well!

The chicken, which had been acquired a couple of days before and refrigerated, was unpacked from its wrapping and placed in the oven.  Vegetables of the type normally expected were prepared, potatoes, brussels, parsnips etc., all made ready for dinner at 1.00 pm.

On her arrival Mother, happily chatting, was given her normal sweet sherry, and sat making conversation up to the point where dinner was served.

The chicken, now on its own serving plate, sat steaming and ready to be carved.  After a couple of slices, evidence of a small plastic bag emerged from the insides of the bird.

On extraction and investigation, it turned out that the bird’s giblets had been removed, bagged, and replaced inside.  The vender had assumed that the inside of the bird would (at the time of cooking) be inspected and prepared for possible stuffing.

Well at least the legs and wings were edible! 

Mother made light of the mistake, but then proceeded to embark on a sort of historic culinary lecture.  Now I can say with confidence ‘I know how stuffing is made.’                                                    

D. Taylor

Tea - best drink of the day?

Tea is an essential element of the beginning and end of the day, a pick-me-up in the afternoon, a way to welcome visitors and I could not manage without tea.

As a child every grocer’s shop smelt overwhelmingly of tea. It arrived from Ceylon India and Africa in big chests which Grandad could turn into a child’s bedroom furniture with a little imagination and some Fablon, and it was sold in a brown paper bag, by weight.

There was a ritual involved in making tea, not just a simple matter of dropping a teabag in a cup then adding boiling water, milk and sugar optional.

The kettle was boiled - often on a trivet in an open fire, on an Aga or if you were very modern, on a freestanding gas hob, part of a gas oven hob and eye level grill setup.

Just before the water boiled, the teapot was warmed with water from the kettle, which would be emptied out after the kettle has boiled, at which point the boiling water was added to the teapot. A teaspoon of tea per person and one for the pot was added to the teapot and the tea was left to brew for 5 minutes or so.

Milk and sugar were added to each teacup whereby a debate would ensue, Does the milk go in first or last? I would always put sugar in first then tea then milk, ensuring the sugar was dissolved and the tea was the right colour and strength, but this always caused controversy.

Sugar in those days arrived in a blue paper-covered rectangular block which we (the children) would bash with a wooden rolling pin to achieve granules. Sugar cubes were available but granulated sugar came later. There were no artificial sweeteners then. Milk was delivered to the doorstep in a glass bottle by the milkman, with an inch and a half of cream on top unless the birds got to it before you.

The used tea leaves would be thrown onto the compost heap if you had a garden, down the sink if you didn’t. We now know that they added no nutritional value to the soil but those were the days when nothing was wasted.

Now the teabag rules in many households and I must say it is much easier, especially when I am not quite awake or not quite asleep.

It is a little disappointing, given the labour that goes into growing, harvesting, packing and transporting this magnificent plant, that being encased in a plastic non-biodegradable paper square should be its demise.

Jean Taylor

‘You can drive us,’ they chanted …

 For most men a new car is more than something to talk about.

In fact it is almost a requirement that every aspect of the recent acquisition should be explained in great detail to any friend or relation.

I had not long owned my Peugeot 307 (Turbo Diesel Injection 2 litre) HDi sports saloon when I explained its considerable advantages to my Great Central Railway mates.  A short time later, a one day visit to another steam railway was proposed, and a suitable date was fixed.

The matter of transport came up and I found that they were all suddenly very keen to try my new car!

‘YOU can drive us,’ they all chanted. Add then they laughed.

David Taylor

Boat trip on the canal

I wonder if Charley would remember the day that he and I went canoeing on the canal in Loughborough?

Charley and his father had built a canvas clad canoe in the garage next to their house.  Having tested it and been satisfied with the result, they embarked on building a second example, and so both constructions were now suspended side by side in the garage roof.

During the school holidays we took both canoes on two small trolleys to the Grand Union Canal Wharf on Bridge Street.  We managed to launch both canoes without incident and with considerable care climbed aboard, each complete with paddles.  The canoes, having two seats each, had a spare place for a passenger.

We set off and after about half a mile we came upon a couple of teenage girls walking the tow path and ready to call out to us as we passed by.  Charley, being very much more forward than me, invited them to come on board.  I was a bit concerned, but never-the-less they would love a trip to Barrow, about three miles distant. Now there were now four of us.

Arriving at the first lock however, we considered just what getting past it might entail.  We all managed to get out of the canoes safely and inspected the lock. It was too daunting a task to be undertaken safely.  We sat for a short while on the grass chatting, before re-embarking for the journey back to Loughborough.

On getting back and saying goodbye, the question of who could swim came up.  It turned out that Charley was the only one amongst us that could.

Returning to the garage, and re-establishing the canoes in the roof space, we decided it would be better not to mention the day’s adventure to our respective parents.

We never heard from the girls again.  Perhaps their parents had just ‘killed them!’

 

David Taylor