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!”

 

What's Up?

We all know someone who always knows what’s going on: what’s available, what’s for free and where to get it.  

In this day and age of course it’s not that difficult; if you keep abreast of the nightly news on T.V., perhaps have a twitter feed, and have a few notification apps on your phone, you’re good.

But what if there was no television; no internet; no phone?  Of course, I’m referring to my childhood in general and my mother in particular.  

We had a radio (providing the batteries were charged!) to hear the latest news.  Mainly though, we had “word of mouth” (that’s where one person speaks to another person).  This might be a bit of a foreign concept in today’s world of “word of text”, however it worked rather well at the time. It was the reason that as soon as the butcher had a supply of liver in his shop window, within five minutes there would be a line-up around the block.

When Mum was younger, she was gregarious, outgoing and friendly which probably meant she must have been an expert W.O.M. person.  That’s how come she knew when to send me to collect the supply of concentrated orange juice from the local government offices.

As I’ve mentioned before, we didn’t stay full time in London during the war. Courtesy of our government we took trips to various locations throughout Britain as evacuees.  One of these trips was to Birmingham.  Please don’t ask me why we were evacuated to Birmingham which is about a two-hour drive from London and is a major industrial area, it’s very close to Coventry, which had the hell bombed out of it during WWII, just take my word for it – that's where they sent us.  My memories of this place are very sparse and are mainly centred around my youthful fashion sense and the group of women known as the Women’s Voluntary Service or WVS. for short.

These ladies, aside from making jams and doing all kinds of good deeds, also distributed clothing to needy evacuees, as it says on their site: “Children bombed out of homes – needed clothing!”

I know for sure we were never bombed out of our home, but that wouldn’t have stopped Mum from applying for free clothing once she knew about it.  Hence my memories of Birmingham.  A place very similar to the official picture where we were all fitted with suitable attire including a pair of black lace up shoes for me that I considered to be extremely ugly.

Don't remember ever looking this smart!

No doubt you’re thinking that free clothing was a real bonus, and it was in more ways than you can imagine.  At the time, clothing, like almost everything else, was rationed.  That meant that the coupons that might (with a heavy emphasis on the might) have been used to buy us clothing, could now be sold for hard cash; a much more desirable commodity.

Mum’s creed was: “If you can’t be rich and you can’t be lucky then you’d better be wise.  It more or less meant: Keep your wits about you, be street smart, don’t be taken in by false promises and stories, look out for number one, and try to finagle your way to the front of the line if possible.

This last piece of advice was a very tricky maneuver but fortunately Mum was very good at it.

Eventually. Wartime came to an end, rationing was being phased out, slowly, slowly, life was returning.  However, we were still a family of six living in a bottom floor one bedroom flat.  

Not that we were alone in this condition; Hitler’s bombs had flattened vast areas of London and many more families were in similar predicaments. Mr. Google tells me that at the close of WWII Britain faced its worst housing shortage of the 20th century. An estimated 3/4 of a million new houses were needed in the United Kingdom. But materials and labour were in short supply. 

Most rental accommodations in London were owned by the local municipal government, otherwise known as “The Council”.  Therein an austere group of bureaucrats were put in charge of making housing waiting lists and checking them twice, or as many times as they considered proper.  We were on such a waiting list!  I’m not sure what choices the “Waitees” had, but I do know that some people were assigned to Prefab houses, and some were sent out of London to satellite cities, but the preferred option was to stay in London, close to schools, shops, jobs and other familiar surroundings.  

But that meant you had to be on the “lucky” list to get a brand-new brick built flat in a low-rise apartment building on a council estate, with all mod con, such as a bathroom with a bath and running water, and every room with that great unknown: central heating!

Mum certainly believed in luck, but as I’ve mentioned, she didn’t depend on it.   She liked to give it a little nudge.  One of her nudges in this regard was to make regular visits to the local council offices with all four of her children in tow to plead her case and ask if her family’s name had come up yet?   Her question of course was accompanied with copious and constant crying and much hand wringing.  I’m pretty sure that the council employees ran for cover when they spied, once again, Mum and her brood coming through the door.  Four unruly children and a blubbering mother.  

What could they do?  I know what they did in our case.  They put us to the top of the list.  We were the first family to move into a three bedroom council flat with central heating and all mod con!