Everything old is new again

By Helen Burchnall

As a child in the “dirty thirties”, and a young bride during Second World War food rationing, my mother learned how to be frugal. She never threw anything away. All the gift wrap was carefully smoothed out, folded, and put away for next Christmas.

We wore hand-me-downs, or if ready for the rag-bag, had buttons, snaps and hooks removed: you never knew when you were going to need something for a repair or make-over. I was the youngest so I was the grateful (??) recipient of many a hand-me-down. Mom fashioned my first snowsuit out of my uncle’s old green army greatcoat, which I hated. Even the melt-water from the ice in the icebox was collected for the indoor plants. Out of necessity, Mom sure knew how to squeeze a nickel, which was serious coin in those days.

Mom’s true artistry shone whenever there was any food left over. Not that there was ever a lot, but she had grown up in a large family where people were coming and going, so there was always a little bit left for any unexpected guests. Our icebox (later refrigerator) was populated by little dishes with a bit of this, or a dab of that, lovingly put away for some future gustatory concoction. Sometimes something got forgotten at the back and eventually emerged from the cold depths covered with green fuzz. Then, and only then, did Mother heave a regretful sigh about the dreadful waste, clean it up and consign it to the dog-dish. I don’t remember the esteemed Canadian writer, Robertson Davies ever being a guest at our house, but he sure knew my mother’s fridge. His book “Leaven of Malice” has a perfect description of Mom’s fridge. When I read it, I laughed until I cried.

We had some wonderful meals from those leftovers. Mom could make a chicken jump over the pot three times: first roast, next chicken pot pie, curry, or hash, and finally the bones and scrappiest scraps made into a great-tasting soup. But some were pretty awful. Mom never put lids on these small pots of this and that, so everything picked up the flavour of something else. No microwaves, so it was reheated on the stove. It developed what is known in the food biz as the dreaded WOF: Warmed Over Flavour. It is not a flavour to titillate one’s taste-buds. But Mom did the best she could with what she had.

Today, Mom is still my role model in the kitchen. Having learned at my mother’s knee, I admit I’m pretty parsimonious with the provender. When necessary, I serve my family with some of those never-to-be-repeated casseroles fashioned out of this, that, and a little bit of something else. When all else fails, the dog food pot on the stove gets the benefit. My poor husband has at times come home from work, and, sniffing the air, says, “Something sure smells good!” My reply: “ Don’t get too excited, it’s the dog’s breakfast.”

Today, with reduced incomes and lost jobs, I thank my mother for imbuing me with the attitude, and the ability, to turn what in some households would be consigned to the garbage into a tasty dish. Whether it’s a casserole, or filled pasties, shepherd’s pie, soup, or stew, through thick and thin, my family has never gone hungry. And I have the satisfaction that in this world of increasing population and pressure on the food supply, I am doing my little bit to waste not, want not.

Thanks, Mom.