I remember... the food we ate

By Brenda Murray

Reader news

23 January 2008 11:30

Slap! Slap! A firm hand was being applied to my bare, up-ended bottom as I crouched on the stiffly made bed. I sniffled and glared through half-closed eyelids at my attacker. How I hated her, this tartar in her spotless uniform and starched headdress who held everyone in a perpetual state of terror.  

She was the ward sister of the sanatorium where I was receiving treatment for TB, and right at that moment, it wasn’t very good treatment. I pulled the bedspread over my head to blot out the angry face hovering over me. It also blotted out the lecture, which I now knew by heart. Let me tell you what my crime was.

The year was 1947 and I was eight years old; my Mother was also in the sanatorium on the floor below. Everything was still rationed, so meals were very basic and institutional cooking left a lot to be desired.

I'd always been a sickly child and very picky with food. My main hates were for milk puddings, which usually consisted of tapioca (known to us kids as frogspawn) or semolina, always containing lumps of dry powder where it hadn't been mixed thoroughly, sometimes frivolously decorated with a dollop of jam. This didn't make it more palatable, quite the opposite.