THE GOOD LIFE Pamela Vandyke Price
Children, to me, are small-scale human beings and therefore I do not see why they should not—at least as soon as they have teeth—eat the same sort of food (on a smaller scale) as persons who are fully—and sometimes over—grown. A flip but profound comment has been made to the effect that the difference between the British and the French can be accounted for by the fact that French children eat like their parents, while in Britain adults eat like their children. But as a Child, I was certainly expected to behave as a small adult (and it didn't worry me, Until I was sent to school, where I was expected to behave like an idiot), with the exception of food. And the foods that I wanted—red meat (gives you worms, darling), cheese (gives you bad dreams), salads with oil (gives you indigestion), onions and garlic (gives you 'piles) were Precisely those which would have stopped itle being an object of pity—so anaemic, SO listless, so uninterested in milk, steamed fish, egg custard and carrot purée (Which I still am).
The human animal quite often knows What is best for it to eat. But of course it must have foods to choose from and not have its appetite distorted. If eating between meals were considered as socially undesirable as incontinence, if confectionery, crisps and portable ice-creams bore the sort of tax that would price them into the category of the infrequent luxuries they are, children's teeth, teenage spots, 5UPPyfat problems and ultimate health would all benefit. The joys of crunching he crusts of real bread, nibbling crackcutlet bones, and the wings and drumsticks of free-range poultry, biting into fresh fruit and savouring the texture of Perfectly cooked green vegetables, might he revived.
As for drink, all those sodas, squashes, cordials and liquids that are supposed to 'refresh' children, might also beneficially come into the 'occasional treat ' category by bearing the same sort of tax as table wine. People thus compelled to drink London tap water might agitate for something to be done to improve it. Meanwhile, a teaspoonful of whatever the adults are drinking would make the child's glass of water prettier and vaguely palatable. Although I grew up in what was virtually a non-drinking household during the depression, when wine was served at the rare family celebrations (it was sherry, vermouth and cocktails we drank, with an occasional sparkling wine, never, I think, table wine with a meal), then I was always given some as well—because, my parents thought, it was wise that I should get my first experiences of drinking in their company. I think they were as right about this as they were wrong about my diet.
The mudpie instinct, however, should fairly be catered for—whether it involves experimenting with false eyelashes, taking cars, radios and watches to bits, digging, sewing, or messing about in the kitchen. Katie Stewart's The Pooh Cook Book (Methuen, £1.25) is, therefore, a welcome dish—garnishings by E. H. Shepard, of course—and anyone old enough to handle a knife and a saucepan will soon acquire a repertoire of smackerels, elevenses (for weekends), and provisions for expotitions. Hunny, which somehow is a different sort of food in Pooh parlance, is lavishly featured and Thy only regrets are that the author includes the abominable sliced pseudo loaf and so-called ' quick ' macaroni, and that the account of Tigger's first experience of hunny, which is applicable to any savant appraising wine, doesn't accompany the picture of this memorable moment.
For the more mature 'grand bonnet' —and parents—I recommend The Art of Coarse Cookery (Hutchinson, £1.50), which contains much good advice as well as entertainment. Spike Hughes is one of the very few who can write about food and be both funny and witty without also being facetious and silly. The teenager given this book for a giggle will glean many a hint for keeping supercilious maitres d'hotel in their place and charming the loved one with even-better-thanmother-made fare.
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