Browse Nourish Stories by Keyword

A Disappointment

Brodie walked home from school. It wasn't far, but it was all up hill. Even though he lived close to the school and walked down hill in the mornings, he was always late. Could never decide what he wanted for breakfast in the two hours between getting up and the school bell going off. It was always last minute and rushed. Sometimes there was just too much to choose from, if mum had just been shopping and he couldn't make his mind up between lovely buttery crumpets, posh chocolate rolls from France that left flakes all over his mouth and jumper, or even eggs and sizzling bacon.

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A falafel experience

I was on the plane with the rest of the pupils who had signed up for this once in a lifetime trip with school. Eight days in Israel over the February half term. I was excited but also nervous – not a fan of flying and not really knowing that many of the children going. I was almost thirteen and this was a major holiday without my family.

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A Feast of Marzipan

Tim Sinclair

A grey-haired man pauses in the kitchen doorway. He is lost in wonder as he looks across the room to the two ovens, enamelled in a cooling duck-egg blue. The pale colouring contrasts dramatically with the black of the cooker top and the polished steel of the hotplate lid. It is no larger than any standard cooker, but this is cast-iron and it's a new design. It stands serene beside drab kitchen cupboards and the ubiquitous white fridge. It is a marvel.

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A Literary Diet

Liz Power

My mum, a Yorkshire farmer’s wife, was a frustrated bookworm – more interested in words than food. She was an accomplished juggler of a full-time job as a midwife, rounder-up of escaped cows and mother of four children.

Our household extended to six when my aunt, uncle and two cousins came to live with us for a while, in that foodie desert era, known as the 1970s, where the height of gastronomic sophistication appeared to be dried Vesta curries, Smash Mash and Black Forest Gateau.

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A Nourishing Start

Liz Denny

I am a child of Labour’s post-war welfare state. The children who were to have their diet supplemented with calcium from free milk, and vitamins A, B, C and D, contained in free ‘welfare foods’, ensuring our future growth and development. We were to be a healthier, better-nourished generation.

For my parents, who experienced the ‘hungry thirties’, having children of their own who were well nourished was at the forefront of their mind, it was part of their dream for a better society.

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A One Woman Cottage Industry

Alan Ling

When I think of food I often think of my mum.

Folk say “ye cannae beat your ma's cooking”, and I find that statement most agreeable when I look back at all the soups, stews, roasts, curries, salads and cakes she whipped up for our wee family.

I love food, and at 33 years old I will eat and enjoy pretty much anything – be it the filthy (battered macaroni cheese), the pretentious (flavoured ‘foams’) or the rather unnecessary (rancid shark meat).

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a plate-licker

Donal McLaughlin

...he wouldn’t’ve started school yet and he started at the age of four mind and his Mammy Cluskey was still alive at the time, obviously, cos it was her made the salad.

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A Slice of Cake and a Plateful of Memories

Anne C. Logan

Sundays were very different then. In the early Seventies, there were no shops open, no cinemas and apart from attending church for the faithful, a soporific air pervaded the small town where I grew up. Even the dogs didn’t bark. I grew up in Cupar, Fife with my sweet, gentle Mum, my kind, selfless, comedic Dad and my elder sister, who was also my best friend. Back in those days, children actually got bored. No wall-to-wall entertainment in the form of iPads, game consoles and 24 hour kids’ television. Sometimes there was actually nothing to occupy us except our imaginations.

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A Still-Beating Heart

Mark Wightman

In much the same way alchemists tried to convert base metal to gold, I can’t resist trying to turn basic ingredients into something exotic. Give me a quantity of braising steak and I’ll attempt an Indonesian beef rendang before a humble casserole.

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Apricots and Toffee

Melanie McAinsh, @mmca256

When we emigrated from Glenrothes to Johannesburg in 1970, Dad said there would be orange and banana trees in the street, ripe for picking. It wasn't really like that but the Van der Meer family next door had an apricot tree in their yard and a swimming pool.

Every morning the sun woke me. As I yawned and stretched I could see any changes in the tree. The blossoms came first, the pale papery flowers opening for what seemed only a moment before giving way to hazelnut sized balls which fattened and developed an embarrassed blush of orange.

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