You batter beware

Before Red Bull was invented, I had a great aunt who would send me on my way to work fueled by toast – with the entire contents of the local Tate & Lyle factory sprinkled on top of it.  I think she was in league with the local dentist.

I look back to my family’s answers to Fanny Craddock with horror and think of the things they got me to eat. 

My nan would cook for me each morning – as my mum often had one of her “heads”. She wasn’t content with frying eggs, bacon and sausage, her next thoughts would be: why not soak up the fat with a slice of bread? Because making toast involved a giant fork, a one-bar fire and a weeks’ wait; I could understand her reticence.

On Sundays, my nan would cook giant Yorkshire puddings so my dad could have some cold, with jam on, the next day – was Angel Delight a banned substance in early ‘60s SW17?

So, before my family were sponsored by Statins (surprise, surprise), the thing I remember being adored, like some demi-god, was dripping. The thing sounds like a medieval torture. The evidence would sit in some old cup (the more chipped, the better) – these days it would have a hazard sign on it; there certainly wasn’t a sell-by date to be seen!

I’m still surprised I wasn’t, as a youngster, offered it – with sugar liberally dusted over it, obviously!

Another crisp sandwich, vicar?

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