Dishing up the Dirt

Someone I once knew had the unappetising job of being fat taster for a supermarket, he had to check the flavours of Trex v Mazola - not quite as exotic as being a wine taster, but I suppose it pays the mortgage. I was telling a friend about this today, and it brought back some unsavoury memories from my childhood. My father enjoyed all his food deep fried, and the kitchen was a slippery, nicotine and fat stained room that you skidded across if you stepped in with your foot at the wrong angle. Mother used to keep the same lard going in the deep fryer for, well, I'm not sure how long, the mind boggles. In order to keep the fat 'clean' (and I use the term losely) she used to get the burnt bits out by straining the fat through the gusset of some old tights. No one dared to ask whether or not they had been washed first, I think we knew the answer and just didn't want to confront it. My sister in law came round early on in her relationship with my brother, and my father cooked her a fry up. She cried because she thought he must have hated her to serve food that had so much dirt in it. We had to reassure her that it was alright, all our food looked like that and she wasn't to take it personally.

One dinner party my mother cooked duck a l'orange. She dropped the duck on the floor, it slid from the cooker to the door to where the cat was in a position to get to it before she did. Not to be outdone by the family pet, she bravely wrestled the duck back, popped it on the plate and served it to our unsuspecting guests.