Browse Nourish Stories by Author

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Communal Living: Duddingston, 1961

Brian A

I will try to explain how we got through the bad times and some good times and how the actual facts about nourishment were applied growing up, not knowing what was for breakfast lunch or tea. If there was porridge it was made with water as nine times out of ten there was no milk as more than likely the milkman hadn't been paid, so if you didn't like porridge, hard chuckies. More than likely you went to school hungry, so basically that would have been your nourishment from the house for the day.

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Bridie

Kevin Addies

I jumped off the bus at Kirkcaldy and straight into the bakers to get a couple of steak bridies. Even in the rain, I wasn’t caring as I did the Scottish version of al fresco dining - eating hastily on the hoof - biting into the first bridie, savouring every fibre, every molecule of the meaty pastry perfection. I paused for breath and that small second was all it took for a seagull to swoop straight in and swipe the bridie right out of my hand. It was so deft I barely saw it happen and the next thing I knew there was the said gull across the street, tearing into the remains of my bridie.

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Fried Onions

When Maman cooked Iranian dishes, I shut my bedroom door. The smell of fried onions still made its way through, clinging to my clothes, skin and hair. I used up bottles of perfume, splashing on bold scents. Teen Spirit. Joop! But the oniony smell was there, beneath the punchy layer of drug store perfume.

I couldn’t tell that I smelt until I was at school. In the changing rooms, I’d unzip my gym bag and the smell of fried onions would waft out like a fog.

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The Food of Love

Frances Ainslie

It’s weird when it happens. I’m in a delicatessen in Italy. Cured hams and necklaces of shiny, red chillies dangle from hooks above my head. The smell of ham and coffee slaps me in the face and I’m right back in 1966, in Robertson’s, the Grocers Shop in the High Street. Light-headed, I instinctively reach for her hand – these smells never fail to conjure up memories of a time, a place, and my grandmother.

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Honest Thoughts

Misty Digit

Food

When I was a young boy of sixteen, I went to the Antarctic on Salvesen's tanker transport to take the whaler men to South Georgia. Prior to this I had never even heard of whale steaks, but our cooks made them as tender and juicy as you could wish for and with the mashed potato we were well filled. This trip lasted twelve months.

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Not any old toast

Jill Alexander

‘Cash book’ – unwittingly the title of my granny’s recipe book, is inscribed in faded, gold lettering on the red, splotched, worn cardboard cover. The index page, darkened with kitchen heat and time, introduces the first recipe, written with bleached fountain pen. Perkins, followed by green tomato pickle, orange marmalade then fruitcake.

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Nourish - An Acrostic Poem

Hazel Allan

Nipples cracked, red raw. I bite on a flannel and persevere.
Oblivious, you drink from me; your life source for a little while longer.
Unpredictable hollow defeat. This was supposed to be easy, the most natural thing.
Reluctant acceptance. A betrayal.
I am replaced by powdered nutrition; manufactured, artificial, a poor substitute.
Sterlilising, measuring, disolving and re-heating. The gadgets mock me.
Happy, you thrive; your plump satisfaction compounding my failure. A small bereavement.

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Growing

You fed me with words
morsel by morsel
fledgling food
tiny teaspoons of invalid broth
whetting my appetite
for an alphabet future. 

At first
I have been told
words would choke me
I couldn't swallow one whole
a sentence was too-long spaghetti
a paragraph, a recipe for heartache. 

But you fed me with words
and soon,
because I was famished,
I learned to chew
to taste
to savour the subtle possibilities. 

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A taste of liquid gold

Ruth Anderson, @RRudiB1

There she was, in the dark sticky crevice between the wooden frames. She moved slowly, surrounded by her retinue delicately cleaning and feeding her, whilst others stood guard – alert and attentive. I reached slowly into the gap, asking with my bare finger. She obliged, and I gently lifted her long, delicate body – revealing a regal beauty.

The day was warm and the clouds still, so I knew she wouldn’t get chilled. She seemed quite content resting on my finger, looking intently back at me with her dark orb eyes.

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Nourish is a Word for Mothers

Thank you to Catherine Simpson for inspiring me to commit this to paper. 

I adore eating, and cooking has always been one way I express my love for my family. I inherited a healthy appetite, love of cooking and an uncomplicated relationship with food from my mother. She used to say ‘dieting makes you fat’.

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