Inspirational food

Masterchef on Wednesday the 8th of April had an inspirational food round. What foods inspired them to cook?

What inspired me?

Well, my mum of course. But mum was very matter of fact. Like her mum, cooking is something you just did. The cottage pies, the heart casseroles, the steak and kidney puddings, the apple pies, the Sunday roasts, the malt loaves, the Saturday soups and the bread and butter puddings appeared effortlessly from our tin kitchen.

The kitchen was small. We had a basic cooker, sink, fridge and a few cupboards; painted bright blue by my dad. He was well pleased with the way he painted those units. It must have been good for someone who painted for a living. It used to leave me looking forward to each day.

For a good few years, Wednesday winters saw lamb’s heart casserole. It was simple. Mum would layer a dish up with hearts, onions, carrots, celery, potatoes and a few other little extras.

It would have a drop of water and went into the oven at about 7.30 am.

Getting home from school, the house was filled with sumptuous meaty aromas. Cheap hearty fare, good enough for anyone with bread and butter to mop up the gravy. I recreated the dish in the early noughties. It wasn’t quite the same after knocking off from work and driving home in a heated, comfortable car, walking into a centrally heated house and not having to switch the gas fire on to chase away the cold. The number three bus home from the Grammar involved waiting in the freezing cold wondering where your feet had gone before battling onto the bus and facing the chill winds of Seacombe in the short walk from the bus stop.

Then one of us would have to take the shilling off the mantlepiece and nip down to the shops for a pint of milk and a loaf. After that, it was all around the table for the feast. If Dad wasn’t on overtime, we waited for him. Proper family mealtime. Somewhere around 1970, we got a pressure-cooker.

It was a big scary thing which sat on the stove growling away threatening the peace of the world. It was revered in a hypnotic gaze of awe and wonder. It made the perfect beef stew.

In 1976, I bought my own to use in the rented house I had at university. Some of my house-mates would knock it as they went past and all hell would break loose. Even after the top had become unusable, the lower pan lasted until 2000ish. I’d buy another one but there’s no room for it in my kitchen full of bread machines, mixers, blenders, microwaves, flashy pans and the ubiquitous pretentious spice racks.

In the fourteen months when I worked at the Gandy, Mum had developed the wonderful habit of baking a malt loaf for Sunday afternoons. I was not in the habit of Sunday lunchtime pubs then but my dad was. After our roast, he’d have an afternoon nap. I would go for a walk around the docks. In amongst the deserted unused infrastructure, I would breathe in the history with a tinge of regret. I wanted to see big cranes and an endless flotilla moored up by the dockside. After getting home and shaking the cold from my ears (I was well haired and bearded in those days), a couple of slices of generously buttered malt loaf with a steaming mug of tea finished off the afternoon.

Then it was down to The Stanley for the evening session. One afternoon, I borrowed Dad’s old postman’s bike. It had no gears. By the time I’d reached Morton Cross, I was done for. I found hills I never knew existed. St Hilary’s Brow was Everest. I may have been nineteen and slim but I was no cyclist. My cycling days came in the eighties. I was driven by malt loaf.

Of course, I’ve made malt loaves myself but it begs the question:

Do I want to create a kitchen mess of sugary malt and molasses complete with glued cutlery and bowls as opposed to a discarded Soreen wrapper sitting in the bin? Well, it has to be homemade for me. No comparison. Let the mess be damned. I’m very grateful to have a good reliable cleaner.   

Cottage pie:

Yes, every Monday evening Mum would get the boat and bus to Fazakerly to see Nanny Hobson. We were never left to fend for ourselves. There would be a cottage pie in the oven. How on earth did she manage the full-time job and the full-on journey? It was delicious, coming in the good old British grub category. The mince was boiled, onions and dried herbs were added before the magical Oxo cube was crumbled in and the gravy thickened.

This was probably done at six in the morning. Potatoes were boiled and mashed in what spare time there was between work and rushing down for the Mersey ferry. By six there was a sumptuous bubbling cottage pie sitting in the oven.

By then I was getting curious. I fancied a bit of cooking myself. There lies another story.

One of Mum’s weapons of choice was that pressure cooker. For a lot of my childhood, Saturday dinner involved steam. Either steak and kidney pudding or raspberry steamed pudding. They were winter specialities. After that, when times were getting harder with Thatcher’s attempts to destroy working-class communities, came the soup.

The pressure cooker became the real Saturday star. Early on, the pork ribs would be cooked for their flavour. The cooked ribs alone were a treat. The soup would then be made with veg and barley with herbs. These were basic cheap ingredients brought to life by a mother’s ingenuity.

Coming in after a cold morning to the sound of the steam and some hot ribs to nibble on before the thick soup and thick white bread from the bakery down the road, was a perfect prelude to heading off for the match. I’ve tried to recreate the soup but I can’t replace the hot steamy kitchen and that look on my mum’s face knowing she was creating her weekly treat with four hungry (greedy) mouths just waiting.

No need for words, the empty plates and bowls said everything. The best compliment I’ve ever received was from my good friend Stash:

“Steve, you’re a c**t but you can cook.”  And on that bombshell……………

Thank you for reading.