Kitchen Musings by Jennie Hart

 

I examine our well-loved kitchen knife, both blade and handle forged from shiny stainless steel. I fear its ferocious cutting edge but not a drop of blood has ever spoiled it. King Charles believes that plants have feelings and even scream, but I cover my ears because I am thrilled to chop those sturdy fruit and veg, like squash and swede, carrots or sweet potatoes.

My thoughts drift to my dad and I remember the range of kitchen knives in our family kitchen. Dad was a butcher by profession, whilst these days, I almost choke at the thought of preparing raw meat. He came from Hull in East Yorkshire, and after school, was employed by the Argentine Meat Company. Next door in the Hessle Road, was Shaw the Butcher and Mr Shaw persuaded dad to work for him. Mr Shaw didn’t like dad’s name, Leslie, so chose to call him Peter. Certain things amused dad and this was one of them

Dad always referred to Mr Shaw as ‘Shaw’ and he told how one day, he and Shaw were mincing pork to make sausage meat. Shaw was operating the mincer and by accident, chopped off the top of his thumb. The severed thumb, along with the minced pork, spiralled onto the butcher’s block, but was not discarded; it entered the next batch of sausages! Dad was a storyteller and related how one night, he and his brother Jack dressed up as girls and went out into Hull city centre. When a gang of lads came onto them, Jack lashed out and smacked one in the face. ‘The lass is a bloody boxer!’ called out the victim, holding his bleeding nose, ‘Cum on, let’s leave ’em alone!’ And they did!

Only dad’s mother, my sweet grandma Rose, called him Leslie. If she came to stay, she would share my bedroom and sit up in bed singing ‘Lavender Blue Dilly Dilly’. Her son Jack with partner Laurie owned a toy shop, and I clearly remember going there on the steam train to choose a birthday present, a mechanical tortoise. ‘Grandma will be there making drinks,’ said mum, ‘But you are not to have one; Grandma is not very clean.’ As a child I found this command very disconcerting, for two reasons, one, I loved my grandma, and two, I know I must have been very thirsty!

Grandma Rose endured a harsh life and at least once tried to commit suicide. Another time, she went missing and was found huddled on Withernsea beach. Her husband grandad Albert was a fisherman and   Dad recalled how once, Albert came home from sea without notice and Grandma had pawned his suit. Grandad went wild, beat up the poor woman and threw an Ormolu clock out the window, given them as a wedding present. Albert died before I was born but Grandma, despite her hardships, lived to be ninety-four. 

Dad was posted to Gibraltar during the war, and mum moved from Hull to Driffield to take over her great aunt Susie’s grocery shop. Susie was sixty- five years old and going to get married. One of mum’s customers would often bring her a rabbit to make a pie and I was expected to gut it. Brian, my brother, earned sixpence on Saturdays from Mr Farnsworth the farmer for every rabbit he gutted and skinned. It wasn’t unusual for children to contribute to the family income by doing chores. I was born in a rural farming community where kids mucked in. I served in mum’s shop as soon as I was tall enough and earned a bag of sixpences on Sundays. At Christmastime I helped mum prepare the turkey. It arrived with its giblets in a little bag which were simmered to make stock for the gravy. The liver was mashed into the stuffing then thrust into the hollow bird. Dad would eat anything that had once lived and was passionate about tripe, a white, fleshy body-part, rough and crenelated on one side and silky smooth on the other. He relished the flavour and texture and would drown it in salt and vinegar.

At midday dad and I came home for lunch, dad from work and me from my primary school. It was a sacred time when none of us spoke while dad ate his meal and read the Daily Mail. Mum, my brother and I ate our dinner when dad had finished. Winston Churchill called his depression the ‘Black Dog’ and dad’s black moods certainly deserved a name. He sometimes went days without speaking and if I saw him coming up the garden path, my stomach churned with anxiety. In contrast, he was a sensitive man who liked to write poetry and would sit alone for hours listening to every kind of music. Occasionally he revealed his sunny side, reading to us from the Daily Mail and laughing out loud at Princess Margaret’s ‘goings-on!’ He was a Royalist!

Dad was flamboyant, like a male peacock; he wore clothing of amazing quality and style. After his death, I sold his most interesting garments to a retro- shop near Waterloo Bridge; bowler hats and trilbies, Austin Reed suits and silk ties. Surprisingly his stack of Playboy magazines, many of them vintage, were the most appreciated by the enterprise. Any fan of Peaky Blinders will recognise that dad belonged to the era of the dapper working-class man. He was no gangster but was proud of his brass knuckle duster, his sharp suits, velvet collars and kipper ties. He also had solid gold teeth scattered amongst his porcelain dentures.

To get back to the kitchen knife! I am glad to be a vegetarian. I don’t mind dripping blood in gangster movies or tales of Dracula, but I don’t want it on my plate! To use a cliché, ‘Live and Let Live!’