Browse Nourish Stories by Keyword

A is for Apple

George Roy

Act One.

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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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Bad Eggs

Ruth

There have been some bad eggs in my life.

I only know this, because there have been some very good ones.

My favourite is poached on Vogel’s toast with butter leaking through to the plate. Nowadays, unless you make them yourself, it can be hard to find eggs poached sans the safety of a silicone or metal cup. I do not poach eggs this way. In part, because it is cheating. In part, because dropping an egg into a pan of simmering water and watching it whirl into shape is exhilarating. But mostly I don’t poach with cups because it makes the texture all wrong.

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Bird's Dream Topping

Lesley Hendry

Toffee popcorn and juicy water stowed
Ready to set off on the sunny road
New beach shoes and bathing suit
Chosen themselves, but oh so cute
Little ones landed on the beach with glee
Eyes wide, fascinated by rolling sea
Buckets and spades tumbled down together
As little legs toddled hell for leather
Into the water with shrieks and gasps
Nana running, a hand of each she grasps
As rolling waves break, the trio jump
Until the youngest takes the hump
Tiring, soaked and a little chilled
Sand castles and moats, really thrilled

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Cake and Family

Whenever someone needs to know I care, I reach for the mixing bowl.

If you’ve had a scary diagnosis: it’s brownies, made with Muscovado sugar and a negligible amount of flour.

If you need donations for your fundraiser? Chocolate chip cookies. With golden syrup dripped in for a crystallised chewiness.

If it’s your birthday: of course, I’ll make you some cake. You get to choose. Lemon Drizzle? Marbled? Chocolate?

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Didn't we have a lovely time, the day we went to Troon?

Morag Driver

As the week progressed, too slowly for our liking, our childish excitement would almost reach fever pitch. How our parents put up with us, I will never know. “Are we going to Troon on Sunday, mum?”, “Can we go to the beach, please?” I don’t know how it had ever come about, or who had originally arranged it, but every Sunday during the summer months during the 1960’s – twenty of our relatives, cousins and their respective parents – would fill the various cars and drive down the Ayrshire coast to the small town of Troon. It wasn’t even a very long journey.

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Expectation

I may have found the answer.

The strange thing is, there is no question, has never been one, only expectation. Great expectation.

Plunged into feeding from the moment you were born, a wriggling, squirming, heart-warming entity. My responsibility. One I wouldn’t shirk from but didn’t realise, then, how the world would turn to look upon me.

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Family Dinners

When I was 15 and my widowed mother sank into her bed with depression, we ate beans on toast for a week, until scunnered of it I raked out the old Good Housekeeping cookbook, and studied how to roast a chicken. We ate well that night and, emboldened, the next night I grilled lamb chops and made a stock for broth from the bones. A beef casserole followed, and I learnt that long and slow is better than short and fast. My mother's Italian hairdresser gave me a recipe for Chicken Cacciatore, and that night we all learnt the difference between a 'clove' and a 'bulb' of garlic.

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Finding the Fun

Edith Ryan

I’m going back forty years. I’d grown up in the country, had brothers and a sister, as well as pals at neighbouring farms. There was always someone to play with. Many years on from childhood, I was living in a suburb of Wishaw, where there was a mixture of housing types – from owner-occupier to limited space maisonette flats. Our children had each other, garden space and the use of the cul-de-sac for games with all the other kids.

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Food For Thought!

April Fairbairn

Family life in our house revolved around meal times, not because of the delightful food served, I’ve never been a gourmet cook. Basic, decent food was served, meat, potatoes and two veg, fish and chips etc., followed in true North East style with some sort of pud!

Having two sons with, of course, different eating habits, the oldest wouldn’t eat anything unless it was covered in tomato sauce.

Hey, if he’d eat all his dinner with added sauce I wasn’t going to argue, no matter what his Gran might have thought, anything for peace around the table. 

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