The deepest rooted meals in my childhood memory were those meals I enjoyed in celebration of events in other people’s lives and not my own. Meals in our house could hardly be called “celebratory”.
I was the eldest of four boys that grew up in the 1950s and 1960s. Mealtime was a “stretch or starve” session that, after Mum’s hours of slaving over the food in a steamy kitchen, was consumed in 5 minutes flat. My father said that what he witnessed daily in our kitchen was on par with the monkey enclosure in the Dublin Zoo at feeding time when in those days, the monkeys were sat in chairs at a table and food was served up on plates and drinks in cups and bedlam ensued.
Then in a flash, the meal was eaten, we were gone, out to play or kill each other, leaving my parents to clean up the mess and relax with a cup of tea, safe to enjoy their lives for another 3 hours when it would happen all over again. Mum, in the face on the insatiable feeding needs of her offspring, resorted to casseroles, stews and soups by the bucket load. Sausages served on their own lasted nanoseconds on the plate so she used to cook “Toad in a hole” pork sausages cooked in a crispy Yorkshire pudding served with onion gravy and accompanied by a large dollop of mashed potatoes. Mmmmmmmmm.
In all my childhood I don’t recall a single meal celebrating my birth, but I’m sure there must have been. I was the first of four. What chance had the others of parties if I was forgotten? I’m sure it happened. My parents were both loving and sensitive people. It must have. If you pushed me I can reluctantly tell you of my 21st birthday party, the memories of which I will take to my grave. That year, 1976, my parents gave me a choice of what I could have for my birthday.
“You can have a suit or a party? Which is it?”
It started about 6.30pm when my Dad arrived home with a barrel of Smithwick's ale and set it up in the kitchen doorway with my younger brother to man the pumps. It contained about 130 pints of beer. I was in charge of the music which was located in the lounge and Mum and Dad parked themselves in the sitting room, a no go area for party guests.
I was a fairly quiet sporty sort of youth, attended a school and then college both miles away from home so knew few locals and fewer still of my fellow students who lived around the college. I played on the rugby, soccer and GAA teams so I invited them and then at the last class on Friday, without much thought, I invited all my Business Studies course mates. I’ll be frank with you. I had no idea who or how many would turn up.
“When did I know the party was getting out of control?”
I suppose the time my Dad drew me to one side and asked me to ask the “guests” to stop pissing in the garden and sneaking up in pairs to my bedroom, just off the lounge.
Also, I had to guide a few guests in as they didn’t know where my house was and it was then that I noticed the neighbours three doors up had hung a notice on the gates saying “Rodgers are 3 houses down at 34”. I guess my original directions could have been better.
Not being let back into the house by a complete stranger was also a sign that things were not as they should have been.
“It’s my party” I bellowed over the din coming from inside.
“Yeah, they all say that – now Fuck Off!” he retorted and shut the door in my face!
About 2.00am the beer ran out and about 2.30am Mum had retreated from the sitting room as a tall bearded scruffy course mate had entered the no go zone and lay down his weary inebriated body in front of the fire. Looking down on Shane, spread-eagled and sleeping peacefully I thought he had more than a passing resemblance to Jesus Christ. My Dad didn’t see it that way and ordered me to shift him out of the house by any means available. He was carried into the back of Brendan’s van and I watched as it pulled away from the house, noisily rattling and belching black smoke.
By 3.00am we closed the door on the last of the stragglers and I found my camera, hidden by a “friend” early in the evening under a mound of coats and jackets in the cloakroom.
I, therefore, have only two pictures of my 21st, both taken at this unearthly hour and showing a red-faced sweaty, freckled youth with dishevelled clothing and a worn expression.
So no, I don’t have a favourite childhood meal but thanks for asking!
No comments:
Post a Comment