Feed: Grandpa's Kitchen
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I'm not sure mine was so excellent, but in order to maintain the continuity.... :-)
Strain through Ian’s underpants and add a small bottle of Worcester sauce (not necessary)
Snort.
Can we assume you’ll be following more modern standards of hygiene? Just curious, in case you ever offer it as a BBQ condiment. :-)
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Jos,
You could make a range of celebrity flavours!
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Hebe,
Great family tale Russell. Though I'm pleased I have never come across that garlic sauce, especially strained through underpants.
I am very envious of a brick-based glasshouse.
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Sacha, in reply to
modern standards of hygiene
Strain again
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Sacha, in reply to
brick-based
mighty mighty
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Russell Brown, in reply to
Can we assume you’ll be following more modern standards of hygiene?
Please. Clean underpants, obviously.
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Hebe, in reply to
Boiled underpants puh-lease.
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One of my earliest memories is "helping" my grandfather plant beans in his vegetable garden, and the mysteries of his garden shed.
And I think I'll give that recipe a go - what sort of vinegar do you think? Malt? White?
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Hebe,
His dream kitchen wasn't what we'd build today. It was small and quite dark, although the ceiling was high. In place of a table there was a diner-style booth. Proper meals were had in the living room next door.
That conjures up an evocative mental picture. Were the walls T+G or hardboard with half-round edging the joins?
I pretty much aspire to Elizabeth David's ideal simple kitchen --here she explains: http://www.independent.co.uk/life-style/food-and-drink/features/elizabeth-davids-dream-kitchen-625982.html
A picture: http://lukehoney.typepad.com/.a/6a00e54ef13a4f8834019aff8ec1ae970b-pi -
Beautiful. I'm off to a funeral tomorrow of a gentleman & scholar of the same school. Aged 92, was still gardening until last Wednesday.
So lovely to have that food as history, which is my particular obsession. Food is what tells us who we are.
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Trevor Nicholls, in reply to
well food quite literally makes us what we are
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Kitchen stool… If it’s a question of hygiene, underpants and straining should never be mentioned in the same sentence (let alone in a recipe) … but I am envious all the same: my paternal grandfather’s notion of cooking was to boil everything into submission. For days, if necessary. And as for seasonings, well, even salt was viewed with some suspicion.
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Ian Dalziel, in reply to
airs and strains...
underpants and straining
a 'smalls' point of clarification
- I believe the foundation garments of the later years of The Empire, were of a more generous and open weave...If you haven't had breakfast yet
do not listen to the Bonzos on the matter,
sympathetic reactions may occur...
ps @ Linger
Kitchen stool… ...nice!
perfect for a new blog on the Law & Food
it could be called the Kitchen stool box...too soon?
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Russell Brown, in reply to
well food quite literally makes us what we are
So it's a metaphor that's literally true! I love that kind.
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Russell Brown, in reply to
That conjures up an evocative mental picture. Were the walls T+G or hardboard with half-round edging the joins?
From memory, there were many cupboards.
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Ian Dalziel, in reply to
well food quite literally makes us what we are
Rise up, Free Radicals and er, Cannibalanoids…
:- ) -
rabbit gumbo
You have reminded me (albeit delayed) of the time my grandmother made us rabbit stew. I thought it was delicious, but my grandmother, bless her, thought it would help the more squeamish among us if she sang;
Yummy yummy yummy
I've got bunny in my tummyShe was always catching us on the hop.
#rip
#badoom -
Gareth, in reply to
Aaah, Viv!
Barbed wire bum baby, be like me
Neither of my grandfathers cooked, but one gardened. And I can't resist offering this picture (taken by my father in 1976, I think) of my grandmother's kitchen. This was the back room - more of an outhouse, really - of a tiny terraced house in a village on the outskirts of Llanelli, in Welsh-speaking Wales.
My grandmother is on the right, Aunty Ansi is washing up, and my mum sports the tea towel. From that little room all manner of good meals would flow. The fridge sits on top of the bath, which was a new addition at the time. I was more used to the tin bath in front of a hot coal fire when I was small.
The garden was long and thin. At the far end, chooks pecked around the battered pine tree that had been planted after my first Christmas in 1954. I can't remember what else was growing, beyond roses and mint and blackcurrants, of which my mother's family was inordinately fond. My great-grandmother's house in town had a tiny garden, large enough only for the coal shed and two blackcurrant bushes. I still look forward to the first blackcurrant tart of summer, and borrow my mother's pie dish, which she got from her mother, and so on back through the generations.
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Ian Dalziel, in reply to
there were many cupboards...
...and don't forget the bins!
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I keep thinking back to the time in the '90s when my friend and I made a day trip to Tauranga. We stopped off at her grandparents place and they insisted we stayed for dinner. Dinner was fish with white sauce, boiled potatoes, peas and carrots, followed by rock hard vanilla ice cream and canned fruit salad for dessert. It was like the food was trying really hard to barely exist.
I don't have any cinematic memories of amazing cooking from my grandparents. When my grandma got older, she started boiling the crap out of vegetables and relying heavily on Maggi packets. My mum still makes a Grandma recipe called "Chinese beef and beans", which I think is "Chinese" because it has soya sauce in it.
Meat and three veg is my heritage, but one that I'm not especially wanting to cling onto.
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the main food memory of my grandfather is standing in the kitchen of their place in the mount, and he's teaching me how to dip stale bread in egg-whipped-with-milk. drop into hot buttery pan and fry on both sides.
eat with liberal sprinkle of iodised salt and a dash of pepper from the small blue shakers.
i still eat it when i need a particular kind of comfort food.
Ma wai ra e taurima,Te marae i waho nei?
i miss you old boy.
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Hebe,
These memories of ancestral tucker are great. Especially Robyn's dinner -- a typical menu for that generation. Certain rellies are near 90 and still eat near identical meals. Each day of the week has its unvarying menu. An offer of zucchini from our garden last year was met with suspicion: "What are they?" "Courgettes sorry." Followed by an enunciated: "No thank you. We don't eat THAT sort of thing." It was evident that my poisoning attempt had been noted and seen off.
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Hebe, in reply to
...and don't forget the bins!
The bins! My Grandma's kitchen opposite Crichton Cobbers had a fine 1920s kitchen until the late 90s: bins, swishing sliding doors, a monster 50s fridge with no shelf space, and an original terrazzo grey stone-chip bench with ever-increasing canyons in the chip. The bench gave my hospital-matron mother nightmares about its food poisoning potential.
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There is a long line of men being able to cook in our family despite some prize winning bakers on the female side
I have always wondered about the dish called " pooftas " not sure how you would spell it but that is how it was pronounced
These were fried scones which my Grandfather made for his wife's breakfast
Love to know the origin of these, the scotch grannies or the Portugese whaler but they taste great, split with golden syrup, on the full breakfast plate -
thegirlstefan, in reply to
my grandad, and then dad (Finnish-Scottish) both made fried scones with golden syrup, both in the electric frypan which also was the vehicle for a take on chicken chow mein
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