Tempus Fugit

Time Flies…

   Apr 09

Country Tucker

Remember when you would go to visit Gran and Grandad on a Sunday and the whole house would be awash with delicious scented tendrils hinting at the epicurean delights that awaited you at Sunday lunch?

Every day out here is like a Sunday at the Grandparents.  Wandering in to the hospital each morning, your nostrils are assaulted with the smell of a silverside boiling away or a roast beast of some sort cooking sizzling and crackling in a hot oven.  By morning tea your stomach would be rumbling at the anticipation of the impending luncheon.

Certainly I have had my fill of roast dinners in the last few weeks followed by delicious treats such as steamed pudding, jelly and custard and bread and butter pudding.  It sure is good old fashion wholesome country tucker, and since it is provided to me free of charge, three times a day every day, one would think it almost heretical to cast aspersions on such an apparently idyllic setup.

However, there is this concept of “too much of a good thing”.

Coming into my third week, I have probably consumed more meat than I have in the entire two months prior to me heading off into the sunset.  I have eaten probably thirty percent more meals than I would usually (allowing for the fact that I am normally in such a rush to get out of bed on to work that I usually don’t eat brekky).

To tell the truth, while all of this food tastes really good – I am reminded once again of the visits to Gran and Grandad where the meat and three veg meals usually meant vegetables boiled in brine to within an millimetre of their blanched existence and roasts that you had on Sundays – and then saw cold for lunch or refashioned into something else every day for the next week until the side of roast had been used up. (Blood hell that was a very long an protracted sentence – one that I really don’t feel cogniscant enough to reword).

I find that I am pining for a spicy curry from Punjabi Palace or a plate of yiros from Lefkas.  When I feel like a salad, I long for the friendly dark-green leaves of baby spinach instead of anaemic looking lettuce leaves.  Bring on the cubes of fetta, kalamata olives and garlic dressings.

I guess in the twenty years or so since I last had a Sunday dinner at the Grandparents (who have since moved twice – first to a retirement village and then onto an address with a celestial post code), my tastebuds have broadened their horizons.

While it’s nice to take the occasional gustatory walz down memory lane – I think I will be glad when I am back to a more cosmopolitan smorgasboard of flavours.



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