...there's both eatin' and drinkin' in it
Perhaps unsurprisingly, what with the recent passing of my Da, I am, these days, all about comfort food, seeking solace in sweetness, in soothing, creamy textures, in foods fondly remembered and – somewhat predictably for me – in spuds. Today, that meant a simple gratin, with potatoes poached in milk and baked with crispy skins on top – a dish made in my mother’s kitchen with basic, unfussy ingredients and enjoyed with that most comforting thing of all, family.
Sunday spuds
“Potatoes are up.”
So reads an entry made just three weeks ago today in the diary that sits on the table beside my Dad’s armchair.
Said spuds are the ones that were planted by Dad’s good friend and neighbour, John’O, in my parents’ greenhouse, after what was probably a good deal of friendly, if characteristically unsubtle, prompting from Dad. Though he himself was no longer fit for the kind of physical exertion involved, he remained, nevertheless – and as his career as an army officer and community fundraiser par excellence had always demonstrated – a supremely able director of operations. He was pleased as punch at the thought that he would have new potatoes in May – around the same time that he expected news of a much anticipated great-grandchild – and, while he needed no preparation for news of family arrivals, he had advised John’O to get the garden fork from the garage and leave it in the greenhouse, ready to lift the spuds when the time would come.
Yes, the potatoes in the greenhouse are indeed up
It’s not that my Da will object to a drop of red wine if offered but, truth be told, it wouldn’t be his first choice of beverage. And he certainly wouldn’t be doing any sniffing or swirling of the wine before taking a generous swallow and pronouncing whether he thought it a nice drop or not. Still, we each enjoy our tipples in our own way and, if I were to be completely honest, part of the reason for bringing bottles of red when I visit home is that I get to enjoy them too.
As far as food goes, my Da is a plain eater and has gotten pickier in his old age – spuds and chops, brown bread and cheddar cheese, apple crumble and apple stewed – these are mainstays of his diet. That and his own peculiar take on breakfast. There is, therefore, little point in me bringing fancy foods home to mark Father’s Day, or any other day, for that matter.
You, on the other hand, might like to do just that and, if so, read on.
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