See the menu

I made my way back to the room, with the smell of the cooking pudding, which I was not allowed to have, filling my nostrils. Memory of the soft pillowy texture rolled across the surface of my tongue. My mouth savoured the memory. Okay, the tongue doesn’t have a memory. Which is why I always say to people when having to be in a bad smelling location, “Breathe through the mouth, not your nose”. It may taste weird, but breathing through your nose has links directly to your memory. If it is a really bad smell, then you don’t want to trigger your memory in future circumstances.  Have you ever stood somewhere and just gently sniffed. In that way of seeking, which we commonly see in dogs. The nose dilates, delicately, quivering, tweaking, filtering, of a smell, as it enters the nasal passages. The attempt, to identify the particular memory, to identify the specifics of a scent, that may, be recognised, or may be entirely new. The dog pauses, stationary, just the nose twitching. The eyes may scan the area if the scent is on the air. Before, they immediately ‘lock on’ to it. And, if free to run, they go.

I think I was wishing I was ‘free to run’ right at that moment. However, I returned to the room. Fed. Like a condemned man, after his final meal (in some countries), I had eaten my last meal, and was now returning to my ‘cell’ to await the final punishment. Mind you, as I understand it. The condemned man gets to choose his last meal and in most cases, his final punishment would be final. Mine was just postponed. I wonder what my last meal would have been? What were the favourite meals we experienced as children in our house? The ‘Englishness’ of our menu was strong, thanks to our mothers heritage (and probably my fathers own ‘war years’ mother’s cooking). Yes, a lot of the food was boiled, or steamed in the colander (if we were being fancy). Tasted great as we were very used to it. And with eight children there were certain foods which could be afforded to feed the masses with’. Sausages and mashed potatoes (Bangers and Mash) was a common dinner. A Lamb roast was usually a Sunday special and was waited for in high expectation, all week. You would always be hoping to get at least three halves of the crunchy roast potatoes (if you were lucky) and some of the crispy fat edge of the leg of lamb (though often mutton). The cheapest green vegetable was cabbage, or (dreadful notes of doom sound out – dum, dum, dum!) Brussel sprouts! I never minded them, though there were several major disputes in our house over the refusal to consume them, but some family members. And on at least one occasion a battle of wills between my next older sister, my father, and a plate (containing only three little sprouts), that dragged on long into the evening with a definite refusal to consume them by my sister (She eventually lost the following day).

(continued tomorrow)