Over lockdown, we’ve been getting together virtually as a family on Houseparty & Zoom. Today’s “theme” was Off Menu: each person picks their ideal starter, main, dessert & side. Along with two drinks and poppadoms or bread. It doesn’t have to be a perfectly cohesive meal – it’s more about sharing your preferences and experiences.

We had a couple of days to think about this, and I’d pretty much pushed it to the back of my mind and was going to go with my gut when the call took place. I had a vague idea in my head that I’d go for a steak as my main.

Once I gave it some thought though, I realised that the steak I was thinking about, I’d only ever eaten with a certain person, and I couldn’t separate the food from the memory. Absolutely I’d want to eat it again, but I’m not sure I could face the flood of other memories that would come with it.

So I thought about the things I’d eaten and drunk in my life with good, happy memories and associations. So here is my Off Menu, and the memories and experiences that shaped it.

Poppadoms or Bread

Poppadoms.

Every time we go out for curry, and the waiter comes to offer poppadoms, my dad will always order more than one per person, but fewer than two per person. I don’t think there’s an exact science to the amount he opts for, but he does the exact same thing every time, and makes eye contact with everyone round the table to check they’re happy with the figure he’s chosen. (Usually for three or four people, he’ll order two more poppadoms than the number of people; for bigger groups it can be three, or even four more.)

Starter

Sharing Platter. We all know the ones: a big plate of breaded / battered, deep fried everything. Often with garlic bread. And some dips.

One of my closest friends is also a single mum. We don’t see eachother often, but when we do, we usually go and eat out with the kids. I love these dinners because there is zero judgement. She’ll announce that the sharing platter looks good, and I’ll say “great, let’s get one each”. She understands, just as I do, how very little we get for ourselves. How we’re our children’s sole source of comfort, nourishment, entertainment etc, and how relentless that can be. That the constant giving of ourselves takes it out of us. That sometimes it’s absolutely essential to treat ourselves with a ridiculous amount of food in various shades of beige, and not share it with anybody.

Those moments, we don’t need to explain to eachother, our eyes meet, and we just know.

Main

Christmas Dinner with my longest friend.

My friend I’ve known the longest is a trained chef, and whenever we’re invited for dinner, she always cooks far more than we can eat. Christmas is no exception. At Christmas she lays on a feast, and I’ve been fortunate enough to be invited to Christmas dinner for the last couple of years. She has a huge heart, and hates the thought of people being alone at Christmas. So there are usually about fifteen or so of us who take her up on her offer of dinner on Christmas Day.

I chose Christmas dinner because it’s the best in terms of food: a huge spread including three roast meats. But it’s the regular dinners that are the fondest remembered for me. I’ll usually get a message once a week with no preamble, just saying “Dinner at 6”. It’s so much more than dinner. It’s a chance to chuck our kids in the garden and just breathe for a moment. A chance to share a cuppa and catch up on what’s been going on. A chance to just be us in those fragments of calm before the kids come charging back in. It’s family life, as I always imagined it would be. It’s chaos and it’s wonderful and I miss it so very much.

Dessert

Mandarin cheesecake.

When I was younger, my Nan used to make mandarin cheesecake for my birthday. My Nan has dementia. She recognises me but only in a vague way of feeling comfortable with me around. She takes such joy in my daughter, and we delight and revel in that, because it brings her back to us just for a moment. There’s a photo hanging on their wall taken when my daughter was still a baby. My daughter, me, my mum, and my Nan. We’re all laughing because moments before the picture was taken, my daughter had broken wind in the loud and unabashed way that only a baby can. That was the last joke I shared with my Nan, and I am so pleased that it’s immortalised in that picture. I remember my grandad’s hands shaking with laughter, as tears streamed down his face as he pointed the camera at us. It’s a perfect capture of a special moment.

I wish she knew that the taste of tinned mandarins will always bring to mind her laughter, her generosity, and her joy for her grandchildren and great granddaughter. I know that if she could, she’d make mandarin cheesecake for my daughter’s birthdays too.

To drink…

Fizzy blue “Christmas” drink.

The Christmas food shop was always thrilling for me as a kid. The weekly big shop was usually done by my mum on a Friday evening, and I’d go with her (if only to be the first to know what “yellow stickered” bakery goods she’d be bringing home!). But it was my dad who did the Christmas shop. And he’d do it during the day. It was a novelty to see Tesco in the afternoon, and to be there with my dad. The Christmas shop meant that my sister and I got to choose what we’d have, and I can’t remember my dad saying no to anything. The fizzy drink section was always last (though it’s been moved now, and the crisps are there instead), and I remember we could choose a two litre bottle each for us to enjoy over the festive period.

I remember picking the same drink for about three years in a row. It was blue, and it was fizzy, and the only time we ever drank it was at Christmas. I can’t remember what it was called. Nor really what it tasted like. It wasn’t a bright WKD blue, but slightly paler and slightly misty. I think it was probably blue raspberry; it was definitely fruity. It never crossed my mind to ask for it any other time we went shopping. But I’d always get that anticipation when the Christmas shop came round, as it would be the very last thing we’d put in the trolley. I remember the excitement bubbling in my stomach as we walked round the rest of the store. To this day, that particular corner of Tesco always makes me smile.

Cup of tea

I don’t mean the cups of tea I make for myself at home. I mean the cups of tea I have with others. The cups of tea that you know aren’t going to be made to your liking, but you drink them for the company. The cups of tea that are the perfect excuse to visit someone you love.

My other Nan has skimmed milk, and it makes tea taste terrible, but I’d give anything right now to drink a cup of it with her, and give her the hug I always give her before I leave.

The random herbal tea you sit and enjoy with a friend in Brighton you haven’t seen in forever. One of those cuppas where everything has changed, but somehow nothing has changed.

The cup of tea you share with a lover on the sofa before rushing home to your daughter who’s woken up. That night when the date goes nothing like it should have done, but the connection over the cuppa far outweighs any other plans you may have had.

The cuppas I share with colleagues at work. We’ve each got our own cup, and our own quirks as to what we drink and how we like it. There was a certain solidarity this winter in declaring it was time to put the kettle on. Those hot drinks kept us going, and kept us smiling. I miss forest school a lot. The nature, the children, but most of all the laughs and kind words with my colleagues.

The endless cuppas my friend made for me when I was terrified and didn’t know what was going to happen next. She took us in with open arms and held me while I sobbed. Supplying endless tea as we talked long into the nights. These are the cuppas I should be making for her now as she endures a nightmare of her own. These are the cuppas I wish I could soothe her pain with.

The cuppas I make at houses that aren’t my own, but I know I am welcome enough there to make the brew for everyone.

I couldn’t join the Houseparty today. Today was a tough lockdown day. My daughter was in a funny mood all day, and when the time came, I found myself too emotional to get involved. Instead, I sat cuddling her while she watched Frozen II, and cried quiet tears behind her at the sisters’ reunion.

For everyone who’s ever broken bread or shared a cuppa with me. Thank you. Those times will come again, and we’ll make new memories, made sweeter by the fact that we better understand their value.