Food glorious food

I HAD a sore throat for the past couple of weeks which I thought I had gotten the better of only to have it rear its ugly head this week. Being sick always makes me miss my mother that bit more. True, at 27, I am more than capable of downing some panadol and taking to my bed without her help, but it's not the same. My mam's cure-all-ails concoction of honey, cloves, lemon and hot water, her endless hot water bottles and maternal sympathy I have only come to appreciate now, when I live another country away from her and thus have to fill my own hot water bottle and God knows where I'm meant to find cloves?

I'm always surprised at the memories of my mum when I was younger that pop into my head and I realise there is probably a national archive of childhood memories stored in there that my brain will choose a selection from for my own private screening every now and then as I grow older.

Last week, for example, was Pancake Tuesday and as I was talking to a friend about it, I suddenly had this really strong memory of my dad coming home from work and my mam at the cooker churning out pancakes like some sort of incredible human batter-flipping machine. My brother and I sitting at the kitchen table, which was filled with a whole load of pancake fillings - ice cream, sugar, lemon, bananas, cream, etc - trying in vain to convince ourselves we had room for just one more even though we had already inhaled our own weight in pancakes at that point. My dad sat down with us and mam served him up his and then eventually she joined us and had one herself. Very domesticated and old-fashioned maybe now, but a comforting memory nonetheless, especially since my Pancake Tuesdays since I left home have consisted of me patheticallly trying to keep the tradition alive by coming home after work and consuming a few microwavable ones with some lemon from that plastic Jif thing. Not exactly Betty Crocker but it's the thought that counts. Although, if you tasted those micro pancakes, you'd probably tell me to stop thinking so much.

Lent's always been a funny one too. I always go off sweets, cakes, chocolate and crisps, every year since I was small, although now I must admit it tends to coincide more with my need to diet for the oncoming swimsuit pagent that is the summer than any real sense of religious obligation, but let's just call it a happy coincidence that the two happen to occur at the same time. It's been a week and a half and I always forget how NOT eating junk food is actually quite do-able. I have my rare moments of weakness such as when I open the fridge and see my housemate's Cadbury chocolate trifle (I love them) sitting innocently on her shelf, and I feel a little tug of loss at the knowledge that I cannot go there right now. But that's where the Lent thing kicks in over a simple diet no-no, for that chocolate trifle represents much more than just an extra pound on my hips, it's also a character-building personal test of self-restraint. Shutting the fridge door and walking away will make me, not just a slimmer person, but a better person. No pain, no gain and all that jazz.

Last Saturday, I had a friend to stay and so the Scooby gang got together and we all went out to this new restaurant, an all-you-can-eat paradise for just £16.99. The venue has 1,000 seats and you have to book a week in advance if you want to go. I've got to say though, in theory it was a fantastic idea but in practice, not so much. The place itself was like a world school cafeteria, foods from every country represented and queues of people with trays filing endlessly around the various parts. Three plates of food later, uncomfortable was not the word. It was excessive, greedy, anti-social, I had barely talked to the others in between battling it out at the Chinese section for a third helping of sweet and sour chicken before staring some other girl out over the last samosa in India. I had at least six different countries' specialities nesting in my belly and I did not feel well AT ALL. I looked at the others and knew they felt the same, even Himself was avoiding the dessert section and THAT is serious, let me tell you. And, not to be a bit preachy or hypocritical, or maybe that's exactly what I mean to be, but I felt uncomfortable in this food free for all when there are people out there who are barely surviving, let alone pigging out down Harbourside way. It felt wrong. That nice, full feeling you get after a quality meal out, with three distinct courses, fine wine and good conversation was definately MIA. I felt like my body was a big rubbish bin the bin men had forgotten to service. We called it a night shortly after and myself and Himself rolled ourselves home. We chalked it down to experience but made a pact not to go there again anytime soon. It was a crime against food, seriously.
Even now, a few days later, my stomach still gurgles in protest at what I put it through.

As for me and my sick bed, I pop some more panadol and a strepsil, feel a wave of self-pity and martyrdom wash over me as I cough weakly to no one in particular and then reach for my phone. It's times like these that a girl needs her mother you know!