Macaroni

Yesterday, I just couldn't decide which of the many childhood stories wanted to emerge from my fingertips next. A discussion with a couple of dear friends about the habits of their feline companions made my mind up for me. And no, it's not a tale about cats. To those of you who already know what's coming from the title of this post, my apologies. You knew it would "come up" eventually.

In junior school, one of my classmates was Sandra. She was a child of a mixed race marriage in a time when this was still unusual. Her father was blind, and Sandra shouldered a large part of the caretaker role at home. They were affluent - I think her father had a diplomatic career of some kind - but we could all tell that her life was a troubled one. Sandra was also a slow child. Not in the sense of mental acuity, but in the time it took her to do anything. In needlework class, she would take two terms to finish a small embroidered snake while the rest of us made our way through several different projects. (Granted, it was a very beautiful, well-crafted snake!) And she finished last at everything we did. Including eating.

The rule for school lunches was that you had to finish everything on your plate. In practice, of course, that just meant that you couldn't leave the dining hall while there was still food on there. I know my mother often had to cope with me bringing home an apron to launder, pockets filled with the remains of apple pie, tapioca pudding and beef stew. The food quality was generally poor and many of my culinary likes and dislikes were formed at this early age.

So, macaroni. It was served up with a foul-smelling bright orange cheese sauce. The texture was quite frankly revolting to my senses. I think most of it went into my apron pocket that day. Of course, Sandra was still eating away as I left the room. Some time later, I passed the doorway and peeked in to see that she was, in fact, the last one in there with Mrs Green, the maths teacher, standing over her in "encouragement". In fascinated horror, I stood there watching as Sandra forced each tiny mouthful down her throat. Finally, the last one went in - and predictably a few seconds later, everything came back out again onto the plate. Mrs Green continued to stand there stony-faced, unswerving in her duty to observe school rules. "Okay, Sandra, " she said...

"...now eat it. Again."

I haven't touched macaroni since.

My mother, after spending a term there as a temporary kindergarten teacher and experiencing the lunches for herself, told them she would be preparing mine herself in the future, and I was to be excused from eating school food.