Sourdough and Sandals

Back home from camping and we had sensibly organised a shower rota during the journey home. With 5 girls to shower plus partner, a rota was the only fair way to go. We weren’t sure what to expect in terms of storm damage and in fact, there was none. Fat cat was waiting for us and everything was as we had left it.

Looking in the fridge, we were down to a jar of pesto. As I was stirring it into the pasta for lunch, I remembered reading about how middle class pesto is. It made me grin. How funny that food has its own class system. Yesterday, I was googling the company: Rocket Post and as I was scrolling down my google search, I came across this letter written in the Guardian: My wife and one of my kids think that rocket just tastes like a slightly stronger lettuce but I and the other kids think that it’s the vilest, bitterest, most astringent evil ever given salad-leaf form. Is she just more middle-class than the rest of us (even though I make my own sourdough bread and wear sandals in winter)?

Sourdough bread and rocket join the heady heights of the middle class food system. From where, presumably they can sneer down at chips and burgers – unless the burgers are made of lamb and infused with fresh rosemary – and look up to beluga caviar with envy, scoffed by the green welly and tweed brigade, as they quaff their champagne.

I seem to remember a similar class system for baby foods, when I was weaning mine – at 16 weeks max as it was back then, I can’t imagine having to wait 6 months. Baby Organix – how middle class. Mini breadsticks and rice cakes. I expect it’s a similar story now? Put the hand held blender on the baby shower list. Watch out babies, there’s a middle class allergy coming to get you. Yes, the food class system starts early. I wonder what the royals wean their babies on? One of my baby friends produced neat little Tupperware pots filled with homemade delights whenever we were out. I would plonk my jar of HIPP (organic) carrot and lamb shite onto the table, that stained everything orange – the stain of shame.

Anyway, I had dispatched partner off to Waitrose to replenish our supplies with middle class foodstuffs, such as free coffee and instead he returned brandishing a Lindt bunny, wrapped in gold foil with a bell around its neck. Happy Easter, he said as he handed it over. Bollocks, I thought. I’ve been with you all over Easter and got fuck all. This is a scam. I received it with thanks and a dubious look on my face.

After teaching last night I felt I deserved to break into that bunny with a cup of tea. It was gone. I knew it, I said to partner. You bought that bunny for yourself and you’ve eaten it! He looked sheepish. He’d been rumbled. But all I could find to eat was edamame beans and quinoa and I wouldn’t know where to start with making something out of those two things, he protested. I checked his feet: no sandals and I forgave him.

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