Hungarian goulash.
The nursing home beside the park was cooking up a storm this morning - a storm that picked me up, like Dorothy in The Wizard of Oz, and dropped me on planet Nostalgia, circa 1970.
Canteen food has that smell. No one ingredient is distinguishable from another and it's rather an olfactory blanket of mush... not pleasant but not unpleasant either.
So, back to me being Dorothy and landing in the hall of Croxby County Primary, sniffing the olfactory mush-waft when I was about seven, and looking at the board beside the servery on which each day's menu was posted. It read 'Hungarian goulash'. And I felt anxious and safe all at once because that sounded strange and exotic and I knew I was going home for lunch and wouldn't have to tackle this goulash stuff.
Mum's cooking was top notch meat-and-two-veg, and as long as the two veg were carrots and peas then everything in my world was rosy. We'd have a roast on Sunday, leftovers on Monday, beef stew or steak and kidney pie on Tuesday, liver and onions on Wednesday, fish and chips on Thursday - Dad's day off and they went shopping so Mum didn't have time to cook - sausages on Friday, and fish fingers on Saturday.
Puddings were Instant Whip, Ambrosia creamed rice, Rice Creamola - a semolina type thing that came out of a yellow, red and blue packet - Heinz sponges from a tin, and at weekends it'd be apple pie or something else home-baked.
I knew where I was with Mum's meals. I knew how to eat them and what they would taste like. I knew what to do with my knife and fork and there were no nasty surprises - unless there was a chewy bit in the roast or the stew but I could cope. Hungarian goulash on the other hand was obviously a very different culinary beast!
What kinds of things did they eat in Hungary? Why did they serve up something Hungarian in my school? What kind of cruel mind would do something like that to schoolchildren in Hull? I wanted to cry when I thought about the others in my class and in school who had to eat it...and for how hungry they might feel all afternoon if they couldn't. It's safe to say that Hungarian goulash upset me, deeply.
And then came a dreadful day, one I had hoped might never happen, but it did. Mum went into hospital and my brother and I had to 'stay dinners' at Croxby for the first time ever.
Out on the field at playtime I could smell the mush-waft and the anxiety started to build. "Please don't let it be that, please don't let it be that..." I whispered to myself. Lining up to go back inside I knew I'd see the menu board and I'd know what we were going to get for dinner.
It was, of course, 'that'. Stark white letters on a black board that chilled me to the bone. Hungarian goulash.
The next hour and a half passed in a haze of panic. What would I do? How would I cope? Everyone else knew how to do this stuff but I didn't. I felt close to tears, distracted and alone. When the bell rang for dinner break I felt the dread wash over me like gravy over mash.
I waited in line, watching what the other kids did, picking up their trays, knives and forks, passing along the front of the counter and receiving dollops of this and scoops of that from the doling arms and hands of the dinner ladies who had always looked very twinkly but who now felt like the nastiest inhabitants of my very worst nightmares. Finally, it was my turn. I held out my plate and hoped I wasn't going to wet myself.
Braving myself to look down as I walked to my place at the tables with my tray I was surprised to see the Hungarian goulash looked very much like stew. It sat there, a benign pool of reddish brown sauce, meat and carrots, beside my pile of fluffy mash. Sponge pudding and custard floated in the bowl beside my plate.
Sitting down, I decided that if it looked like stew then maybe it might be safe to have a stab at it. I was so hungry. Bravely, I stuck my fork into a carrot, then some mash, and popped it, quickly, into my mouth.
Oh the relief. Hungarian goulash tasted just like....stew! I was so happy I felt like pushing my chair back and dancing round the hall. But I didn't. I tucked into the goulash as though it were my first meal in a month and then polished off the sponge and custard before rising from the table a new and changed child.
I wonder, when the elderly residents of the nursing home got their lunch today, whether any of them felt as empowered and brave as I did the day I faced down the Hungarian goulash and lived to tell the tale?
Canteen food has that smell. No one ingredient is distinguishable from another and it's rather an olfactory blanket of mush... not pleasant but not unpleasant either.
So, back to me being Dorothy and landing in the hall of Croxby County Primary, sniffing the olfactory mush-waft when I was about seven, and looking at the board beside the servery on which each day's menu was posted. It read 'Hungarian goulash'. And I felt anxious and safe all at once because that sounded strange and exotic and I knew I was going home for lunch and wouldn't have to tackle this goulash stuff.
Mum's cooking was top notch meat-and-two-veg, and as long as the two veg were carrots and peas then everything in my world was rosy. We'd have a roast on Sunday, leftovers on Monday, beef stew or steak and kidney pie on Tuesday, liver and onions on Wednesday, fish and chips on Thursday - Dad's day off and they went shopping so Mum didn't have time to cook - sausages on Friday, and fish fingers on Saturday.
Puddings were Instant Whip, Ambrosia creamed rice, Rice Creamola - a semolina type thing that came out of a yellow, red and blue packet - Heinz sponges from a tin, and at weekends it'd be apple pie or something else home-baked.
I knew where I was with Mum's meals. I knew how to eat them and what they would taste like. I knew what to do with my knife and fork and there were no nasty surprises - unless there was a chewy bit in the roast or the stew but I could cope. Hungarian goulash on the other hand was obviously a very different culinary beast!
What kinds of things did they eat in Hungary? Why did they serve up something Hungarian in my school? What kind of cruel mind would do something like that to schoolchildren in Hull? I wanted to cry when I thought about the others in my class and in school who had to eat it...and for how hungry they might feel all afternoon if they couldn't. It's safe to say that Hungarian goulash upset me, deeply.
And then came a dreadful day, one I had hoped might never happen, but it did. Mum went into hospital and my brother and I had to 'stay dinners' at Croxby for the first time ever.
Out on the field at playtime I could smell the mush-waft and the anxiety started to build. "Please don't let it be that, please don't let it be that..." I whispered to myself. Lining up to go back inside I knew I'd see the menu board and I'd know what we were going to get for dinner.
It was, of course, 'that'. Stark white letters on a black board that chilled me to the bone. Hungarian goulash.
The next hour and a half passed in a haze of panic. What would I do? How would I cope? Everyone else knew how to do this stuff but I didn't. I felt close to tears, distracted and alone. When the bell rang for dinner break I felt the dread wash over me like gravy over mash.
I waited in line, watching what the other kids did, picking up their trays, knives and forks, passing along the front of the counter and receiving dollops of this and scoops of that from the doling arms and hands of the dinner ladies who had always looked very twinkly but who now felt like the nastiest inhabitants of my very worst nightmares. Finally, it was my turn. I held out my plate and hoped I wasn't going to wet myself.
Braving myself to look down as I walked to my place at the tables with my tray I was surprised to see the Hungarian goulash looked very much like stew. It sat there, a benign pool of reddish brown sauce, meat and carrots, beside my pile of fluffy mash. Sponge pudding and custard floated in the bowl beside my plate.
Sitting down, I decided that if it looked like stew then maybe it might be safe to have a stab at it. I was so hungry. Bravely, I stuck my fork into a carrot, then some mash, and popped it, quickly, into my mouth.
Oh the relief. Hungarian goulash tasted just like....stew! I was so happy I felt like pushing my chair back and dancing round the hall. But I didn't. I tucked into the goulash as though it were my first meal in a month and then polished off the sponge and custard before rising from the table a new and changed child.
I wonder, when the elderly residents of the nursing home got their lunch today, whether any of them felt as empowered and brave as I did the day I faced down the Hungarian goulash and lived to tell the tale?
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