When I was young, I was quite often left by myself at home. My mother would
leave me a meal. Often she would leave me a bowl of something called caramel instant whip for pudding. I hated caramel instant whip. Nevertheless, I would eat it, taking tiny quarter spoonfuls and hoping the sweetness would overpower the other less palatable flavours - dominant among them hints of polystyrene and petrol station forecourts - and distract me from the texture - thick, oily, not quite gluey, less dense than snot but nevertheless faintly snot-like. It was a stomach-turning dish, and yet I never felt I could just tell my mother I hated it. I thought I might hurt her feelings and, of course, the longer I remained silent on the topic the greater I thought the hurt would be if I ever did come clean. The odd thing is that it is only now, more than 45 years later, that I have realised that there was another option. I could have simply washed the whole thing down the drain.
Oh oh – I know that dessert! [We would have called it "pudding" as kids, but we're more sophisticated now.] I don't think there was a natural ingredient in it – not even sugar. It was made vaguely palatable by putting stewed fruit with it - whatever in season from the orchard there was too much of to eat fresh.
ReplyDeleteYour comment about not being game to tell has inspired me to write another 'Tale from my wicked past' about a similar food item my dear aunt prepared for me way too often. I will force you to read it when I've written it.