By Gordon Barlow

When I was a boy…
[Surely one of the benefits of becoming an old codger is that you can
get away with reminiscences beginning with “When I was a boy”.]
So. When I was a boy, life was simpler for children than it is now.

For one thing, the
food was simpler. In the 1940s and ‘50s, shops didn’t carry
pre-cooked meals, at least in Queensland, the Australian state where
we lived. McDonald’s and KFC hadn’t come to us yet. Prepared food
in general? Heck, even sandwich-shops created their goodies while we
watched. Nothing was prepared ahead of time. We office-workers lined
up at midday and gave our orders one by one to sweaty-handed lads
living dangerously with razor-sharp knives. There was no
air-conditioning, and the fans couldn’t really cope with the heat.

Hygienic gloves
hadn’t come into fashion, then, but the sandwich-makers were
skilled at their job and we hardly ever discovered any blood in our
fillings. And, in those days, didn’t worry over-much if we did.

We didn’t have
allergies, because allergies are immune-deficiencies caused by the
excessive avoidance of germs. Those kitchen-cleansers that remove 99%
of all household germs hadn’t reached the market, and it’s the
99% of household germs that build up kids’ immunities. What doesn’t
kill children makes them stronger – just like our Grandmas said.

Frankie Gardiner was
the only kid with asthma that anybody ever knew; and he was from
Melbourne, a large city a thousand miles or more to the south. Maybe
he had led too sheltered a life; he was a delicate boy, who tended to
hang back when the rest of us were messing around in the dirt.

When I was a boy,
not only was food simpler than it is now: so were menus. Our mothers’
menus at every mealtime were quintessentially simple – namely, what
was on the plate. The choice was what the English call “Hobson’s
choice”: eat it or don’t eat it. Actually: eat it all or don’t
bother turning up for the next meal.

My Mum would bend
the rules a bit, in a good cause; but she never broke them. I hated
pumpkin, so she kindly served me only a token amount; and in the
spirit of fair play I ate all of that. It was easier at
boarding school. There I could give my pumpkin away, and fill up with
the stale bread that usually went begging.

In our sheep-farming
district, most of our food was mutton, home-raised at a marginal cost
that was close to zero. In town, too, when we moved there, our only
meat was mutton, out of residual loyalty to the sheep-farming
industry. During my working years in Brisbane my landladies often
served up roast beef on Sundays, but it was many years before I could
eat it without feeling guilty.

I was left with a
lifelong aversion to choice, with regard to foods. Even today I never
feel completely comfortable in restaurants, for that reason. I love
eating at friends’ houses, because they don’t give me a choice.
Occasionally a hostess will say, “I hope you like this”, but she
doesn’t really care. There’s never an alternative on offer.
“Sorry, Wendy, I’m a vegan.” “Oh dear, Charlie; let me scrape
the meat off your plate and give you a few more potatoes. There you
go.”

When courtesy
requires, I will eat anything at all. In our days backpacking in the
Middle East, I was once offered a sheep’s eye. As it happens –
and fortunately – our host had lived in the West. As I steeled
myself, the eye glaring at me defiantly, he took pity. (The host, not
the eye. The eye was pitiless.) “I know it’s not a western
thing”, he said, “and I won’t be offended if you’d rather not
choke it down. But for us it’s a delicacy. Why not let me eat it?”
I settled for the tender eyelid-meat that surrounded the organ. That
saved me a little bit of “face”. Linda, my travelling companion,
wouldn’t even eat that.

Somebody once told
me of a British couple who discovered a restaurant in Madrid whose
specialty was bulls’ testicles. Animals killed in the bull-fights
are sold at the markets, and no part of the beast is wasted. One
night the serving was meagre – tasty, but much smaller than usual –
and the couple asked why. The waiter shrugged. “Senor, Senora…
You know, the bull doesn't always lose. Very occasionally, he
wins, and it is the matador who dies.” Shrug.

It – uhhh – it may not be a true story, but it’s worth the telling.

Gordon Barlow

My name is Gordon Barlow, married and with grandchildren. I left Australia in 1963, as did my wife, Linda, whom I met in Greece the following year . We have lived here in the Cayman Islands for over 40 years.

For more on Gordon and to find where you can view all his blogs go to:https://www.expatfocus.com/c/aid=444/expat-experiences/cayman-islands/gordon-barlow/