Plating up

Cooking was a minority interest sport in my house when I was a child. My mother needed to learn the top and bottom of a kitchen following the death of her father when she was just twelve years old, resulting in her being the only person of the four of us who knew a saucepan from an egg cup. Of all the memories of my mum – who sadly passed away herself three years ago – I can see and smell most clearly the kitchen with its constantly in-use oven and piles of cook-books, mostly the hardback glossy front cover Delia’s of course..

Her mother came to Preston in 1945 and worked at every low-paid factory job the place had to offer, and as a result her cost-cutting in the kitchen became something of a family legend (I know little about the genuine classics, mind, something involving bread in milk and actual sugar butties.) Both mum and gran would cook for the rest of the family/the men almost every day from New Year’s Day to New Year’s Eve, and although the bad sticks with me (oh my gran’s hate/hate relationship with deep fat fryers) it’s the good which I remember most fondly. Amongst those good are two items of food that often send people hurrying to the bathroom at the very sound of their names, but I learned to love and still eat them today; the humble black pudding and the even more humble tripe.

I know that these days the former is most likely found in stacked form inside gastropubs, but gran was far more simplistic and ordinary. To this day I still love taking a boiled black pudding straight from the pan, covering it with vinegar, and filling myself up with all that wonderful stodge. Yes nostalgia comes into it, but I’ve heard enough from ‘sleb chefs and TV cookery types to know that the enjoyment of food comes from feeling good, so one plate of hot black pudding swimming in vinegar chef, please, I need my hit.

The latter food stuff needs a lot more justification and pleading, I suspect. Food writer Jay Rayner gives it a very good go with his plea for people to give tripe just one more go. As with black puddings, my introduction to tripe was not through something fancy (insofar as one could, in 1980s Lancashire, do anything particularly grown-up with offal.) Many years later an A-Level English tutor would fall into fits of laughter as I tried to explain the concept of “Friday treat nights”, during which I would settle down after school to watch CBBC with a wide plate on which sat honeycomb tripe covered in vinegar and salt. Back then there was also tripe and onions, of which I have had mixed attempts to revisit down the years, which leaves the tried and tested basic straight-from-the-fridge version my go-to fave (and go-to I still do, although the 250g of honeycomb is these days bought alongside various cheeses and meats to avoid looking quite so destitute. I am, it has to be noted, by far the youngest person at the counter ordering tripe, and at 33 that’s quite the observation.)

Perhaps obviously, my continuing love of fresh, cold tripe smothered in malt vinegar does not compute with friends who did not know my family very well. It sort-of, kind-of, almost became normal to see a teenager in the 1990s surrounding the modcons of the era with the whiff of post-war make-do-and-mend. How close did I skirt the opportunity of abandoning school for a life of writing poetry about the forlorn youth scoffing the lining of a cow’s stomach in front of Byker Grove or whathaveyou, how near to being the Prestonian Morrissey did I become? I may never kno…Well I do know, because I’m here, and for all my eating northern classics, such fate did not fall upon me. (There you go, that’s how you start writing Smiths lyrics.)

All the stacks and crusts and foams of modern day cookery have been awarded to the black pudding, leaving tripe to be marginalised to the point of ticking all the boxes for a culinary industrial tribunal. I believe tripe can be treated in tempura batter, or so the Internet may have told me once. However it is saved for future generations, I hope it is. A plate of tripe can always make me feel better, and always more proudly northern. Nowt wrong with that, however you feed theesel’ doing it.

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Jamie Oliver’s pukka poverty

It’s Wednesday afternoon in Preston, the Lancashire city with some of the highest rates of unemployment in England. Looking for food on low- and fixed-incomes in Preston is not easy, and the results are less salubrious fare than “25 mussels, 10 cherry tomatoes, and a packet of spaghetti for 60 pence” as Jamie Oliver says he wants to “teleport” a poor family to see.

Besides Preston’s covered markets, in which you can buy from a wide selection of fruits, vegetables, South Asian and East Asian ingredients, Caribbean and East African foods, tripe, black pudding, fish and pigs trotters, stands the city centre branch of Iceland. The city center branch is rarely empty, and when I potter round for my usuals, it’s pretty much packed from the checkouts all the way back to the vacuum packed value bacon. Outside the entrance is a circular seating area based around an “inspirational” mosaic which has been hacked, scuffed and ignored from the day it was installed. Chain-smokers and women eating Greggs from the packet sit around watching other Prestonians go about their business. From the seating area outside a pub, men of a certain age consider the world through their pint glasses.

Inside Iceland the world of Jamie Oliver is far from peoples’ minds. A mother and her exuberant bundle of hyperactivity stop-start along the aisles, picking up or putting down the various in-house prepared meals Iceland proudly advertise as being a step above the kind of value meal cost-cutters which were involved in the horse-meat scandal. There are other mother-with-children grouplets all over the store, bagging multi-pack crisps, cartons of £1 orange juice and yoghurts. Everything the man in front of me puts out onto the checkout are in cardboard boxes: a Sunday roast, a pasta-bake type affair with sausages, Yorkshire pudding filled with beef slices. I stock up on pasta meals too, and a pork pie, and Yazoo milkshakes.

Oliver has skirted around the realities of poverty and poor living in Britain, though only with a camera crew or researchers around him. His most often quoted remark this week – concerning the couple eating cheesy chips in front of a “massive fucking television” – is typical of his comfortable ignorance. The poor are predominately proud as a rule, who want to show a brave face and nothing of the feet flicking madly underneath the water. Suggesting the aspirational route – eat pasta! make your own pasta! rustle up some ricotta fritters with tomato sauce! – is only throwing the map down from a very tall height, and that map probably doesn’t show the best route to travel. In the middle are jobs which can’t be found, money which is almost impossible to save, demands from banks and utility services that cannot be ignored, and food which has to be affordable, often for anybody but the person buying it. The low- and fixed- income families who want to show their children that they, like any other family, can sit down in front of a television aren’t trying to put TV over nutrition; it’s wanting to carry on as normal with as little negative judgement from strangers as possible.

Eating pasta with mussles in front of a moderately sized television may well be an option for some on low- and fixed-incomes, Jamie, but not from where I’m looking.

Affordable food is not necessarily healthy food. It can be, and indeed really should be if supermarkets had any morals about them. There are options but they’re shrinking. The price of chicken, once a fairly safe option for cheap stand-by meals, has gone through the roof. Most other meats have seen similar price rises. Fresh fruit and veg, so often packed into bags of 6- or more, cannot always be stored away for long amount of times, and they’re not as cheap as they used to be either. Faced with mounting living costs or the need to visit a foodbank, the low- and fixed income poor can’t count as an option the dozen or so ingredients required to make the “cheap” foods so many middle class TV chefs assume just lie waiting in the pantries and fridges of the nation. I wonder if Oliver knows this, deep down, and refuses to accept it.

There are moments of sense and reason in the Oliver interview, given to promote another of his social-conscience television shows. He is right to point to local markets and more sensible purchases, but has gone about it in the completely wrong way. The little dictator attitude is that of most typical Tories and small-c conservatives, who have provided a generation-and-then-some-long soundtrack of tuts and moans from the sidelines on most subjects under the sun. Education? Not as good as it was for the poor or those Northerners, don’t you know. Jobs? They’ve got no grit, those poor and unemployed folks, that’s the problem, need to bring National Service back, I say!

Let’s not demonise the low- and fixed-income poor. There’s ingenuity with that pride and sense too. It makes good copy to draw attention to cheesy chips and expensive unhealthy options, but that distracts from the real economic hardships facing millions across the country.  Maybe the best recipe for Jamie Oliver is not to brag about 101 solutions to national poverty whilst preparing yourself for another lucrative television programme. Come to Iceland or B&M Bargains without a camera or researcher to watch the reality of those people who can’t just be marched into a market for a swift transformation into people who could pick up dozens of fresh ingredients and all the necessary herbs and spices without denting their weekly budget.  It’s not “poverty” as our grandparents or great-grandparents might have known it, but whatever we’ve got cannot be fixed with theatrical gasps at the sight of a Greggs pastie or Bird’s Eye fish-finger. If you want people to see the Sicilian fishermen with their mussels and pasta, Jamie, you’re going to have to pay….