get to the table.
‘I hope you’ve worked up an appetite!’ she says, settling the dish on the trivet, which is laid upon a cork mat, which is laid on top of a tablecloth, which is laid on top of an oilcloth, as if the table itself, somewhere deep beneath these protective strata, happened to be Georgian mahogany rather than an ugly Formica.
The meals at my parents’ house always come thick and fast,and in between there’s a constant opportunity to supplement. The food rolls out in marshalled surges, like Bomber Command. There is no let-up. Someone is forever passing around foil-wrapped chocolates, cheese straws, yellow slices of Madeira, salted luxury nuts, little fruited scones anointed with scarlet jam, cubes of mild Cheddar speared with cocktail sticks, decorative tins containing layers of scalloped Viennese biscuits. It’s a relentless battery of snacks. The food and the constant preparation and clearing away of it quite often get in the way of other things we might profitably be doing, things normal families seem to do when they convene: going for walks, playing Scrabble, talking about subjects other than roadworks or the weather we’ve been having lately.
From time to time, the real world makes itself known to my mother: strikes, petrol shortages, heavy snow, a rise in the price of wheat. Such events prompt panicked phone calls, sometimes two a day, suggesting I stock up on basic provisions as the local supermarkets have had a run on bread and milk. The chest freezer out in the garage accommodates several weeks’ worth of apocalyptic menus – chicken à la king, beef olives, Gypsy tart – stashed in neatly labelled containers that once held soft-scoop ice cream.
Occasionally, when it’s entirely unavoidable, my parents come to London, and though they usually stay with Hester (who has a proper spare room in the house in Maida Vale), once in a blue moon they have to stay on my sofa bed. Of course, these visits are always an ordeal for my mother, who applies herself strenuously to the task of appearing easy and relaxed in what is essentially enemy territory. ‘This looks smart,’ she’ll murmur faintly, as I put a risotto on the table or scoop some avocado into a salad. ‘Just half for me.’ After one such meal, when I came unexpectedly into the room, she turned her back on me, unable to speak, her mouth full of biscuit.
The chocolate wrappers and apple cores I find in the bin when they’ve left are always exquisite little reproofs.
We sit and eat. It’s constantly disconcerting, my mother’s cooking. She models herself on the ideal hostess, but she cooks like a prison caterer, as if the activity is a punishment which she is obliged to pass on to others. This cottage pie is no exception.
‘Frances was saying London is very busy,’ my mother informs my father.
My father picks up his fork and says Stewart Pearson was down in London last week, visiting Clare and the grandchildren.
‘Clare lives not far from you, doesn’t she?’ says my mother. ‘Do you ever see her?’
Clare lives, I believe, in Acton. I barely even know where Acton is. I had nothing in common with Clare when we were at primary school together, and now she’s a marketing manager at Unilever with a husband and two children we have even less to talk about when our paths cross at the Pearsons’ Boxing Day drinks. ‘I thought I saw her going into Selfridges last week,’ I invent. ‘But she was quite far away, I couldn’t be sure.’ I rake my fork through the pale uncrisped mash so the gravy seeps down the channels, just as I used to as a child, before I knew that not all food tasted like this.
‘Have you seen Hester and Charlie recently?’ my father asks.
I say I babysat for them a few weeks ago, and we talk a little about Toby and Rufus. I quite enjoy my nephews, as long as I don’t see them too often or for too long. Overexposure is never satisfactory, not least because I’m frequently rather dubious about some of
‘I hope you’ve worked up an appetite!’ she says, settling the dish on the trivet, which is laid upon a cork mat, which is laid on top of a tablecloth, which is laid on top of an oilcloth, as if the table itself, somewhere deep beneath these protective strata, happened to be Georgian mahogany rather than an ugly Formica.
The meals at my parents’ house always come thick and fast,and in between there’s a constant opportunity to supplement. The food rolls out in marshalled surges, like Bomber Command. There is no let-up. Someone is forever passing around foil-wrapped chocolates, cheese straws, yellow slices of Madeira, salted luxury nuts, little fruited scones anointed with scarlet jam, cubes of mild Cheddar speared with cocktail sticks, decorative tins containing layers of scalloped Viennese biscuits. It’s a relentless battery of snacks. The food and the constant preparation and clearing away of it quite often get in the way of other things we might profitably be doing, things normal families seem to do when they convene: going for walks, playing Scrabble, talking about subjects other than roadworks or the weather we’ve been having lately.
From time to time, the real world makes itself known to my mother: strikes, petrol shortages, heavy snow, a rise in the price of wheat. Such events prompt panicked phone calls, sometimes two a day, suggesting I stock up on basic provisions as the local supermarkets have had a run on bread and milk. The chest freezer out in the garage accommodates several weeks’ worth of apocalyptic menus – chicken à la king, beef olives, Gypsy tart – stashed in neatly labelled containers that once held soft-scoop ice cream.
Occasionally, when it’s entirely unavoidable, my parents come to London, and though they usually stay with Hester (who has a proper spare room in the house in Maida Vale), once in a blue moon they have to stay on my sofa bed. Of course, these visits are always an ordeal for my mother, who applies herself strenuously to the task of appearing easy and relaxed in what is essentially enemy territory. ‘This looks smart,’ she’ll murmur faintly, as I put a risotto on the table or scoop some avocado into a salad. ‘Just half for me.’ After one such meal, when I came unexpectedly into the room, she turned her back on me, unable to speak, her mouth full of biscuit.
The chocolate wrappers and apple cores I find in the bin when they’ve left are always exquisite little reproofs.
We sit and eat. It’s constantly disconcerting, my mother’s cooking. She models herself on the ideal hostess, but she cooks like a prison caterer, as if the activity is a punishment which she is obliged to pass on to others. This cottage pie is no exception.
‘Frances was saying London is very busy,’ my mother informs my father.
My father picks up his fork and says Stewart Pearson was down in London last week, visiting Clare and the grandchildren.
‘Clare lives not far from you, doesn’t she?’ says my mother. ‘Do you ever see her?’
Clare lives, I believe, in Acton. I barely even know where Acton is. I had nothing in common with Clare when we were at primary school together, and now she’s a marketing manager at Unilever with a husband and two children we have even less to talk about when our paths cross at the Pearsons’ Boxing Day drinks. ‘I thought I saw her going into Selfridges last week,’ I invent. ‘But she was quite far away, I couldn’t be sure.’ I rake my fork through the pale uncrisped mash so the gravy seeps down the channels, just as I used to as a child, before I knew that not all food tasted like this.
‘Have you seen Hester and Charlie recently?’ my father asks.
I say I babysat for them a few weeks ago, and we talk a little about Toby and Rufus. I quite enjoy my nephews, as long as I don’t see them too often or for too long. Overexposure is never satisfactory, not least because I’m frequently rather dubious about some of
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