A short aside here to remember that it’s 1952, “austerity” is still the name of the game, rationing still in place, and “ice cream” was cold but had only the barest nodding acquaintance with cream, which is commonly understood to be the high-fat component of cow’s milk. As I understand it, “ice cream” at this time, like margarine, was in fact manufactured from whale blubber. Whether or not this was in fact true, and I believe the prominence given whale hunting in various picture books of the era bears the rumor out, it certainly tasted that way. Greasy tasting with an unsettling grainy texture and lingering on the tongue and palate with an unpleasant persistence, it was quite frankly, disgusting. But hardy Britons were expected to, and did, “grin and bear it”. Although I must confess my gratitude that the rationing of the the war years, lasting into the early fifties was largely, if not entirely, responsible for the healthiest generation the United Kingdom has ever seen. But back to my hospital bed. “I HATE ice cream. Can’t I have porridge? Everyone else is having porridge.” “No, the coolness will soothe your throat.” “I don’t mind, I’ll wait for the porridge to get cold.” “No, dear, eat your ice cream, there’s a good boy.” Implacable.
Somehow I forced myself to down the awful cold greasy paste. Until we started going to Cornwall for our summer holidays, and discovered a Swiss baker who made perhaps the most delicious full-cream ice cream ever, I would only consume iced lollies. Do you blame me? That afternoon Mummy came to see me. Her hands were full of something concealed beneath a draped tea-towel. She carefully set her burden down on the bedside table before bending to kiss me. Then, smiling shyly, she lifted the towel to reveal a green plastic mould of a crouching rabbit. Very carefully she lifted the mould. For a moment there was a perfect pink blancmange rabbit crouched quivering on its platter. Alas, disaster! The vibrations of the car had undone the coherence of the gelatine. Before our eyes the rabbit collapsed, disappeared into a shapeless pink sludge. Such a bewildered, disappointed, unhappy face, a look that I would see echoed in another beloved face, oh, so many years later – but we’ll come to that when the time comes. I could scarcely bear to see that look in her eyes. And I really didn’t care that much about the vanished rabbit. Then as now I was far less concerned with the the presentation of food than the sheer pleasure of eating a tasty dish. And pink blancmange topped my four year old’s list of tasty dishes. “Don’t worry, Mummy. It will still taste good. They made me eat ice
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