Basic Food Needs in a New Country

 

IT'S A MATTER OF TASTE!

If you do a search on Google to discover what are the food problems experienced by immigrants to Canada, you’ll find a lot of space is devoted to immigrants who arrive from places that are different weather-wise, culturally and places where religion influences food choices.

All that makes perfect sense, but, while our little Covey didn’t fit into these parameters, when we first made our tender steps on this wonderful land, we also experienced food problems.  There were foods we missed such as shop prepared fish and chips carefully wrapped in copious sheets of newspaper.  

Please note: There's NO nice white paper between the food
and the newsprint! 
It all adds to the flavour.

Or maybe we had fond memories of the penny crackling?  For those that don’t know what crackling is (please don't confuse it with the North American "pork crackling" which might be said to have a modicum of nutrition) - it’s the crispy bits of batter that drop off the edges of the fried fish, and really should be scooped up and thrown out.  All that lovely fried greasy batter! Waste not want not!

Crackling in all its glory

At the post-war time that we immigrated, the typical Londoner still had a very limited diet.  Although in our household the effort was made to have three colours on a plate: brown, white and green, which on a good day was represented by bangers and mash with green leaves of some kind. There were times when a change was called for.  If you remember the story of Sweeney Todd, you’ll realise that meat-pies are a favourite meal.  Anytime that you could wrap meat in a piece of pastry you had a winner.  From the fancy Beef Wellington to the cold dish stand-by: Veal and Ham pie. Of course, a serving of Pie and Mash was the piece de resistance for our cockney taste buds.

Potatoes - always scraped onto side of plate.
Green gravy called "liquor" coloured with parsley.
Pie, usually served upside down.

These were all foods that no household actually cooked.  Maybe the fish and chips, but the Pie and Mash never! 

In Canada there were few if any fish and chip shops; Pie and Mash establishments were totally non-existent, and still are. When we fancied any of these gourmet delights, we either made them ourselves or did without.

These were very small deprivations.  Canada is the land of plenty!  Our biggest problems were identifying the wondrous foods that were available in the supermarkets.

What exactly was a cantaloupe?  Did you need to cook a pumpkin?  How about the seeds in a watermelon?  Should you eat them?  The bacon looked a bit paltry, instead of a large rasher you had ribbons of mostly fat with a few streaks of meat. That was until you discovered “Canadian bacon”!  Mostly though, there was no cause for complaint about the food:  there was so much variety and so much quantity it was wonderful.

And then there was the Italian gift to Canada: the ubiquitous Pizza Pie, which brings me to the following story that involves a visit from Mum.

Mum was visiting Canada and taking her turn staying with LS and family.

Imagine if you will, a fine summer evening, LS, husband and daughter are pondering what entertainment they can provide for their visitor.  It’s decided that the Drive-In movies will be a unique experience for Mum, after all, nothing of that nature was available in Blighty.

Generally, Drive-In movies were a favourite outing of the times.  The whole family would pile in the car, even parents of young children could forego the babysitting charges and by the time the movie really got going, the offspring had all fallen asleep in the back seat so Mum and Dad could relax and watch the show.

A typical concession stand

But a really big draw was the “Concession Stand” where snacks of all varieties could be found.  Good movie or bad, when the interval break occurred it was “Tally-Ho” to the food.  Popular items, and a favourite of LS’s daughter were the individual pizzas which were probably not prepared fresh on the premises, but they were nicely warmed-up, so these were the obvious choice for all to enjoy.

Let it be said that Mum was not known for her honest appraisal of anything, and she wasn’t about to change now.  This being the first time she had ever tasted pizza it was no surprise when she declared that it had been: “The best jam tart she had ever tasted!”

 

Easter, Christmas and In between

Easter

Easter is a wonderful celebratory time of the year in the Christian calendar.  And these celebrations take many forms.  Here in North America and probably in England, a lot of emphasis is placed upon chocolate eggs.  That was not always the case.

In London, at the time I’m referring to, one way to mark the calendar was for enterprising individuals to roam the streets selling little-live-day-old chicks; Sweet, fluffy, chirping chicks. This was done by means of a man carrying a wide-narrow wooden tray hung around his neck by a leather strap.  Within the box would be oodles of these darling yellow creatures vying for attention.  Anyone of which could be purchased for the paltry sum of a few pence.

It so happened that when this individual made it to our street, LS was outside playing.  She was captivated, as any child would be, by what she heard then saw.  As the teller of this tale, I do not know how it happened that she was also in possession of enough currency to make a purchase (there was not a lot of it to go around) but cash she had, and soon she had one little live chick in her possession!

How sweet!  Well yes and no.  One day old chicks don’t get to be two day old chicks unless they are cared for and preferable by someone who knows what he or she is doing.  Dad did his best to explain to LS these facts of life by telling her that the little baby chick needed his mother hen to keep it warm.   We didn’t have a mother hen, but fortunately the woman who lived behind our house (let’s call her Mrs. Smith) raised chickens and she had lots of mother hens.  Yes, in the middle of London she raised chickens.  But then lots of people raised rabbits and chickens.  Food was hard to come by.

So, it was arranged that Mrs. Smith would care for the little yellow bundle of fluff.

Easy now to understand why LS spent so much time atop the bomb shelter.  From this vantage point LS could see into Mrs. Smith’s back yard with all the little chickens running hither and yon.  Daily she would watch her little chick as it grew and matured.   She loved her little feathered friend and like any BFF she gave it a name!

Time goes by

One day, whilst doing her daily inspection LS happened upon some valuable treasure.  She found some dentures just lying there.  What a strange place to find dentures!  She knew they were valuable because during the wartime everything was valuable. Re-cycling was not a fad but a way of life.  Nothing was thrown away.

When Mum saw these shiny teeth she got very excited.  “Great” she said, “I’ll take those to Charley Clarkes. They’ve gotta be worf a few bob”.  With that she tossed them onto a pile of dirty laundry. 

So the story rests until Dad came home from work.  Perhaps I should mention that as a young man Dad had lots of dental problems and as a consequence was, like George Washington, equipped with a full set of choppers.  Of course his weren’t wooden they were – well you know.

It was pretty obvious as soon as he came through the door. When, in full cockney language splendour, albeit somewhat hindered by the lack of dental enunciation aids, he bellowed:  “I can’t find my FFFFFing false teef”!

Thankfully, Mum had been too busy to get to Charley Clarkes, so all ended well. It seems that on the previous evening a very loud tom cat had been serenading on the bomb shelter so Mum had tossed a handy glass of water in its direction to make it leave.  Well it did leave, but so did the teeth that were soaking in the glass of water.

Ah yes, life goes on.

Christmas

Soon another wonderful celebration in the Christian calendar rolled around; Christmas, a time of stockings for Santa to fill, a time of gifting, a time of feasting.

All those things are maybe in your memories – but they’re not in mine!

I vaguely remember stockings at this time but it could have been some other time.  The ones I recall at best contained a colouring book and some crayons with the obligatory piece of coal in the toe.  As for gifting one to another, well, that was a completely foreign concept not practiced in our house. There were a few Christmases that occurred during the war and they often came at times of great food shortages. 

When it came to feasting, rationing controlled every aspect of our lives. An adult was allowed 3 ounces of meat per week – that’s like trying to make a very small hamburger patty last seven days.  Occasionally the butcher would have what was known as offal; yes you’re right that sounds like “awful”, but when we could get it, kidneys and liver were a great treat.

However, the particular Christmas that I refer to here was a time of great feasting.  You see the little teeny weeny yellow chick had grown to be a plump and juicy chicken.  It was retrieved from Mrs. Smith’s.  Somehow its little neck was wrung.  Mum plucked its feathers.  Dad cooked it. We all ate it.  Well not all.  LS refused to partake in what she considered to be cannibalism.  How could she eat her best friend?

But as Dad said: “Never give a name to something you intend to eat”!