LAST TRAIN TO CLARKESVILLE by THE MONKEES. Story by Victoria Wells

 

Muswell Hill, North London, 1960s

Ingredients for Mock Goose 1 1/2lb Potatoes 2 large cooking apples 4 oz cheese Half a teaspoon dried sage Salt and pepper Three quarters of a pint vegetable stock 1 tablespoon flour

Scrub and slice the potatoes thinly, slice apples, grate cheese.

My grandmother is in her usual position at this time of day.  Her back bent over our deep ceramic sink, hands in water, peeling potatoes.  She looks almost comfortable in that position.  Red, hand-knitted cardigan moulded to her shoulders, the tip of her tongue sticking out and moving from one side of her mouth to the other as she peels.    Enough potatoes for all seven of us, placed on the wooden draining board. Each dinner a different potato dish from her repertoire; mashed, boiled, sautéed, roasted, gratin, scalloped and occasionally fish pie;  fish secreted in mashed potato covered with cheese.  She had a firmly held belief in fish being good for growing bones.

 

Grease a fireproof dish, place potatoes on it.  Cover with apples and a little sage.

Our grandmother lived with us.  She occupied a flat, purposely built for her, in the basement of our house, with her own entrance.  I was never sure if this was most convenient for her or for our mother.  Our mother worked, our grandmother cooked.

 

Season lightly and sprinkle with cheese.

As we sat eating, first our mother and then our father returned from work.  Our mother commented on the food, chiding my grandmother; the greens were overcooked, too many potatoes. My grandmother would gently tell our mother the food was good enough for everyone during “The War”. Our grandmother then melted away back to her flat to leave our mother the job of bathing and bedding.  Our father opted out of this part of domestic life and poured himself two fingers of whiskey and waited until it was time to say good night and we smelt clean.

 

Repeat layers.  Leaving potatoes and cheese to cover.

I thought this ritual was repeated every day in every home across England. After starting school I realised not all grandmothers live with their families.  Most mothers did not work. Other families ate different food. Our grandmother had a suspicion of all things “foreign” with garlic at the top of her list.

 

Pour in half pint stock. 

One time my grandmother got a recipe book from the library and became adventurous.  She tried fish and chips made with beer batter.  Fish and chips was not an uncommon dish in our house.  The cod from the Friday fish man was always good.  The chips, hand-made with the chip press, double fried, in lard, always crispy.  But the addition of beer was extremely bold.  Granny had an abhorrent dislike of alcohol.   She thought the beer in the batter would lead to alcoholism and it would be her fault.  My father, being a scientific man, and in a rational moment before his drink, explained all the spirit would be cooked out at the high temperature and only the taste remain.  It was the taste, our grandmother thought, was the problem.  She convinced herself the taste of the fish would be stronger than the beer so it was an acceptable addition to the batter. She was happy trying to please.

 

Cook for moderate oven for 45 minutes.

Occasionally the tensions in the house would boil over.  Our mother would pick a fight over the dinner.  Our father would try his best to be diplomatic, interpreting for each of the women as to what they may have meant.  He would tire of this role and slink away, whiskey in hand to put on earphones to listen to Wagner on a high volume. We would slink away too, hiding in favourite places until things had simmered down.  Our grandmother returned to her basement to listen a “nice music” like The Monkees on her portable record player. The happy music calmed her.  When the two women came together again no apology was offered and no speaking on the subject would be tolerated.  We all moved on.

 

Add flour to remaining stock, add to dish.  Cook for a further 15 minutes.

After Granny died our menus changed; more fresh green vegetables, cassoulet, curry, and condiments.  As my mother read Elizabeth David she would plant herbs in the garden, that were incorporated into the meals. Our food had been coloured in.

 

Serve as main dish with green vegetables.

On my birthday the year our grandmother died I was allowed to choose what I wanted for dinner.  Such a  treat!  I longed for fish-pie just like Granny made, but knew this would not go down well with our mother, so in an effort to please told her prawn curry, her current new dish. Mum knew I was not keen on this so told me it was OK I could choose anything I wanted.  I suggested fish pie.  “War Food,” declared our mother, and that was end of it.  Prawn curry for tea it was, and we all moved on.

 

 

Recipe from We’ll Eat Again by Margaritte Patten. Hamlyn 1990

 

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