Jam, bread and parents
I am writing a cook book, in case I hadn’t mentioned it before. My house, therefore is usually full of the intoxicating aromas of Italian cooking. At least that is how feel about it. Sometimes I wish Italian cooking didn’t smell or taste so good as I battle with my increasing waist line. Each spoonful of gelati or pasta gets me nearer a perfect recipe but equally nearer a size 16. This week it has been jam. I thought I couldn’t tire of plum jam but actually after almost a whole jar I did. To make it easier to go on tasting I made some wholemeal bread, it made the sugar-loaded sticky stuff feel almost virtuous when slathered onto a slice of wholesome wholegrain.
I also experienced a feeling of self-satisfying, self-rightousness as I consumed my own bread and homemade jam. If I had only made the butter (and lost four stone) I could have been Felicity Kendal in an episode of the Good Life. Unfortunately my moment of wellbeing was quickly dispelled by my parents. Love them as I do, so much that they live with us in their old age, their honesty can drive me to distraction. My father pronounced my bread as heavy (which it was not) and a bother to cut (which is easy with a sharp knife and a pair of glasses) and promptly demanded some sliced bread of a well-known brand from the nearest supermarket on my next trip. I couldn’t believe he could prefer something manufactured to homemade. But when he added Baked Beans and fishfingers to the list I knew I had been defeated. So tonight my children are eating little pillows of pasta filled with ricotta and spinach in a fresh tomato and basil sauce and my parents are having freezer food. Each to their own I suppose!
I have come to realise it is a generational difference as well as a question of taste. My parents would have had homemade bread, jam and everything else pre-1950 but then saw the wonders of commercial baking and sliced bread. As I delight in a homemade unsliced loaf they would have delighted in the ready cut plastic wrapped variety that we take for granted now. When I have time, I relish activities such as shelling peas that I can share with family or friends whilst chatting. However when rushing during the week I can’t help thinking of the freedom that frozen peas gave women from being tied to kitchen duties for most of the day.