Other People’s Hams

I’ve been a food enthusiast for most of my adult life and I have even been paid regularly to write about it. I enjoy reading about the history of food, what other people are eating and of course how to make it myself. It’s especially  fascinating to me how many similarities, world-wide, there are. For example, every culture seems to have their own version of a “sandwich.”  I’ll leave you to ponder examples for yourself.

The interesting thing is that as a child I was often branded as a “terribly picky eater” and it was widely hoped that being subjected to school dinners in the UK – a militaristic, character building ordeal – would be “the making of me” and presumably, would sort me out once and for all.

But first, let me offer my own defence and perspective.

My parents enjoyed and served many meals which were popular in pre-war Britain; steamed tripe, for example, was a favourite which I just could not stomach, no pun intended. Liver was also held in very high esteem at our house and I was forced to chew till my jaw ached while also trying to avert my eyes from its rubbery internal cabling system. The texture was like a stiff leather wallet with a pony on the side that I used to have in Grade 8.

I’ve since realized that I am a bit of a ‘texture’ person so the sight of my mum briskly mashing a pale, unearthly substance in a clear Pyrex cup and watching with further dread as it wobbled uncertainly onto a slice of toast was too much for me. (Just in case you don’t recognize this treat, it’s calf brains).

Sometimes I would arrive home from school and open the fridge door to reveal a pyramid of eerily smooth squares of flesh known as lamb “fries.” (That would be a cheerful euphemism for ‘testicles’). I continue to be haunted by this image every time someone inquires if I would like fries with that. Again, what a tiresome, ungrateful little child I must have been to turn up my nose at such cushiony goodness.

It was wicked, really.

But not all of our dinners were offal. Roasted ham, for example, was a firm favourite of mine and was always served thinly sliced with a dusting of Keen’s mustard powder and some peppery scalloped potatoes alongside. Like myself, my mother was particular about hams because ham can be a “very funny thing” she would intone cryptically. I never fully understood this bit of wisdom till I experienced a loss of porcine innocence at a chum’s house and was served up a thick slab of ham, cave-man style, resplendent with soft creamy fat and what appeared to be the eye of a dead pirate in the centre. (This milky, bloodied circle was in fact a sawn off bone which glared up at me from the plate). I.just.couldn’t. And who serves a six year old a cartoon ham steak anyway?

For my own sons, I never required them to “clean their plate” but I did insist that they try everything once. If they didn’t like it that was fine. But fair warning, we might be trying it again next week. When they really couldn’t face something exotic that I might be serving (say, anything with mushrooms) there would always be a plate of buttered Parmesan noodles available. This made for stress-free eating and remains something that I still feel proud about as a parent since they have both grown into enthusiastic, adventurous eaters (and cooks!)

As Niles often says cheerfully “if I can catch it, I will eat it.”

That said, he was never served anything with ventricles for his dinner.

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