We took out bits of veins and flaps, stuffed them with Paxo and roasted them in Bisto gravy. End of the day, only a few were taken home and I had to try and sell the rest to single men in the staffroom.
Thankyou Prue for your review of this book –
‘An accurate, and sometimes very funny, account of the trials of a young food teacher in the 70’s. A light hearted testament to the importance of food, education, and a sizzling expose of the blindness of the powers that be.’
IT’S STILL TRUE – FOOD AND NUTRITION TEACHING NEEDS TO BE VALUED.
It’s my story of teaching cookery in east London – I’m a piece of living social history – there are few of us left!
What’s the talk about?
Based on stories from Cream Horns and Vol au Vents, published 2026, about teaching cooking in an East London comprehensive in the 1970s.
Prue Leith said – ‘An accurate, and sometimes very funny, account of the trials of a young food teacher in the 70’s.’
Prue Leith reviewed the book.
Reviews ‘Excellent laugh out loud book, a must for any foodie or food teacher.’
The 1970s was a time of great change in our food choices yet I had to teach old fashioned ideas like starching a tray cloth and deciding which doyley to use. Boys could learn to cook for the first time, yet the textbooks were about being a good housewife. How could food education be so undervalued?
Who remembers Salad Cream, Stork margarine, Angel Delight, Birds Custard? I’ll tell you stories of their invention and read about my Awful Offal lesson and how Delia taught me to cheat at mince pies.
My books – with 5* reviews – can be found on Amazon and other details are on my website.
Ode to Charlie Bigham from someone buying meals for one
Oh Charlie Bigham marry me And we’ll go and live in your factory And make delicious things for tea Oh Charlie Bigham please marry me.
Oh Charlie Bigham marry me I’ll help you develop your pies They’ll be just as nutritious and very delicious And I’ll lower the cost of supplies.
Oh Charlie Bigham marry me I’ll help you make smaller dishes For fatties like me who need less calories But be sure that I’ll follow your wishes.
Oh Charlie Bigham marry me We could smother each other in cream Or I’ll help out in packing, or even some stacking And then I’ll be part of your team.
Oh Charlie Bigham marry me I’ll help you when choosing fresh thyme We’ll go on the razzle in fields full of basil And pop open bottles of wine.
Oh Charlie Bigham marry me So I’ll no longer be cooking for one We’ll experiment with pasta and feast on moussaka And our kitchen will fill up with fun.
Oh Charlie I know you can’t marry me As you’ve got a nice wife at your home But I’ll still buy your dishes which are really delicious And then heat them and eat them alone. 😩
Extract from I taught them to Cook – memoir of teaching in an east London comprehensive school in 1970s
June 1973 brings the final judgement of my teaching skills. The Cookery Practical Exam. Sixty students have to cook an elaborate, edible meal, with a hot drink, flower arrangement and other silly exam tasks that they throw at us. This feat takes place over several days as each student is allowed their own cooker and sink.
These are the tasks they have to choose from:
1. ‘Cook a two course lunch for 4 people and prepare an evening dish for someone coming back from a fishing trip. Clean a pair of muddy football boots.’
2. ‘Prepare a hot breakfast for a family of four who is going out for the day. Make a packed lunch and some cakes and a drink for them to take with them. Wash and starch some napkins.’
3. ‘Prepare an evening meal for a family with a teenage girl. Make sure that the meal is rich in iron and calcium. Bake some pasties for a packed lunch. Wash and iron a shirt.’
The exam lasts two and a half hours and they must keep to time, produce edible dishes and present on a nicely laid table.
Mr Shield has agreed that the school will cover the exam cost and I must provide all the ingredients. For days they’ve been bringing in their shopping lists and we’ve checked and added stuff if they’ve forgotten. Imagine the howls of dismay if the minced beef for their Cornish pasties was missing.
The exam starts and I switch from helpful teacher to THE EXAMINER and march round the room with my clipboard, watching my students peel and chop vegetables, prepare pastry, bake cakes, biscuits and bread. I take off marks for sloppy cooking skills, messy worktops and general flustered bumbling. They’ve had lots of practice at learning what loses marks. I peek over shoulders, open up saucepan lids, bend down to peer into ovens, and rootle in the rubbish bin for food wastage.
They’ve had warnings during exam rehearsals of things that lose marks.
‘Turn the pan handle in – someone could knock over the boiling water.’
‘Don’t cut off all that potato skin – use a potato peeler.’
‘Use your fingertips to rub the pastry fat into the flour – you are squeezing it into a soggy lump.’
‘Don’t throw bits of pastry away – make jam tarts or cream horns – no wastage.’
‘Don’t peel the apple with the cook’s knife.’
‘If you lick your food I won’t taste it.’
Privately I love licking. Fluffy margarine and sugar, beaten to pale creaminess for Victoria sandwich is my favourite. Foamy, whisked eggs and sugar for Swiss roll comes a close second.
They know the rigid rules to distinguish savoury and sweet dishes. Savoury flans and cheesy scones are cooked and cut with PLAIN rings and cutters.
Sweet tarts and lemon meringue pies must have FLUTED edges. These are the RULES laid down in some Victorian kitchen and they are not to be BROKEN.
On a visit to Sainsbury’s I notice their savoury quiche has a fluted pastry case. I’m shocked at this unforgivable sin committed by food product developers.
And they know the d’oyley rules – plain for savouries and frilly for sweet scones and cakes. One mark lost for the wrong choice and a scowl from me.
On exam day they work in silence. Except for emergencies.
‘I feel sick Miss.’
‘Just keep on cooking Liz – we can’t waste these ingredients.’
‘I’ve dropped my eggs on the floor, Miss.’
‘Bert, here’s a cloth – clear up and start again.’
I only help if there is real danger.
‘Tim – take that tea towel off the top of your cooker. It’s about to catch fire.’
‘Please Miss, it was an accident.’
I press my finger to my lips. No speaking, no excuses, this is the real test.
‘OK, class you have twenty minutes to go.’
Gasps of panic. They must present everything that’s finished. No finished dish = no mark.
‘I’ve burnt the cake, Miss.’
‘Alice cut off the black bits and cover it with icing.’
‘My chocolate mousse isn’t set.’
‘Ray, stick it in the freezer, quick.’
They scurry round the room, tarting up the dishes with garnishes of parsley for savoury and sticky glacé cherries and angelica diamonds for sweet desserts.
Suddenly it is over. ‘Time’s up – present your food.’
Amazing pies with crisp, golden pastry appear hot from the oven.
Steaming dishes of perfectly cooked cabbage and carrots sprinkled with chopped parsley and topped with a knob of melting margarine.
Soft mounds of creamy mashed potato, decorated with a sprig of parsley.
Pineapple upside down cake glistening with glacé cherries and rings of tinned pineapple served with a jug of creamy Bird’s Custard.
And a pot of tea with a strainer, jug of milk, sugar bowl and matching Beryl Ware cups and saucers.
And a rose in a polished vase. And a clean pair of football boots. Or a starched tray cloth.
They scramble out leaving sinks heaving with dirty plates, bowls, burnt pans and sticky baking trays.
Now for my marking session.
All dishes have to be tasted and my face remains deadpan. The students peer through the classroom windows watching for my reactions. When I tasted an unusually sweet beef stew, I realised the student used icing sugar instead of flour to thicken the sauce. The dish was inedible so no marks. I think she saw me screw up my face in horror.
There are other ways I test their cooking. Are the bread rolls crisp? Is the shepherd’s pie well seasoned? Are the vegetables cooked but not overcooked? Has the egg custard curdled? Is the cake thoroughly baked?
I poke and prod, slice, taste and appreciate. It is delicious. They have done me proud.
The marking is over and they surge in to photograph and fuss. Friends come in to congratulate but mainly to eat. Then pack up, wash up, and leave with a wave and ‘Thanks Miss – I enjoyed that.’
I have taught them to cook and they have learnt well.
In the seventies, most of our eggs had white shells but gradually brown shelled eggs appeared in the shops and people thought they were healthier. In 2021, during the pandemic, white eggs were back in the supermarkets and sold for half the price of brown ones. The reason? Specific breeds of hen lay white eggs and these breeds can be kept in very large flocks as the hens are not as aggressive as brown egg laying hens. The white shelled eggs are therefore cheaper to produce and used by the food and catering industry. The pandemic closed many of these companies so there was a surplus supply of white eggs which supermarkets are selling at reduced prices. There is no nutritional difference between white and brown eggs although my 1970s students insisted there was and always wanted my brown eggs.
It’s from the first book I taught them to cook, about cookery lessons in an east London comprehensive.
There’s also my school recipe for Marmalade. How did I get fifty students to each end up with a well set jar of this delicious sweet and sour jam? I don’t know.
The recipe is on this link. Notice there is no pectin used.
In Valencia last week, the streets were filled with Seville orange trees laden with fruit. They are too sour to eat so the 10,000 trees get left alone.
The city harvests the oranges in January each year and uses the fruit for juice and perfume making. Dundee marmalade has passed them by!
In January the streets of Valencia are filled with orange trees, laden with fruit.
Jenny Ridgwell 