Category Archives: Salads in the 1970s

Silly fussy salad

My 1972 salad lessons teach students how to make elaborate plates of over fussed food. We don’t have exotic things like avocados or alfalfa, so we fiddle about instead. Radishes become roses, tomatoes turn into lilies, cucumber is stripped and scissored and spring onions are converted into tassels. Nothing is served simply. Every item is mauled and prepared, plated and primped. And if we can stuff it we do – stuffed eggs, stuffed tomatoes, stuffed cucumber.


radish roses opening in ice

radish rose

Radish roses that have been left in ice to open

Salads in these days are not tossed or dressed. Heinz Salad Cream goes with everything. My mother is horrified when, on a visit to Kettering from my London school, I toss a bowl of freshly picked salad from her garden with some French dressing.
‘You’ve ruined it with that muck. Keep out of the kitchen with your fancy ways! We eat salad cream with our salads, and we don’t need the French to show us how to cook.’

Lettuce from my mother’s garden is a choice of crunchy Cos or the sweet leaves of Little Gem. The greengrocers in East London, send us soft, floppy, round lettuce with limp, tasteless leaves. All fur coat and no knickers I call it – it looks OK but underneath it is naked nothingness. No wonder students hate it. When Iceberg arrives on our shores to accompany McDonald’s hamburger buns, our lettuce eating habits change forever.
The aim of this salad lesson is to arrange a plate of colourful cold vegetables and serve it with some stuffed eggs. I provide all the ingredients, so everything must be the same size and quality.
‘His tomato’s bigger than mine miss!’

Girls like Alice always protest about the size of my offerings. I wonder if Alice will get a job for a campaign organization, or work in politics.
‘I don’t want them radishes – they’ve got weevils in them!’

Ian likes the best quality produce and might grow up to be a greengrocer.

Stuffed eggs
Hard boiled eggs are our protein food today – the truth is we can’t afford anything else. I arrive early at school and boil 25 eggs in a huge saucepan of water for 7 minutes, then plunge them into a sink of cold water to keep the yolk yellow.
‘I want the brown egg miss – me nan says brown eggs are best.’
Janice’s nan often has stern things to say about my cookery lessons.
‘You peel off the shell and don’t eat it, Janice, – the shell colour doesn’t matter.’
Janice glowers. Nan is old and wise and always right.
Janice’s gran says she must have hot food at lunchtime. When I suggest making salad for a picnic, I get a note from Gran explaining that it won’t be eaten as it is cold, so can Janice make a sponge cake for tea instead.
Tim, a teacher, has kindly bought Janice’s fussy salad with stuffed egg  so I watch her hygiene to keep the food safe to eat. Janice needs reminding that hands need washing before food preparation, despite Gran telling her that a bit of dirt never hurt anyone.
I demonstrate how to crack and peel the egg shell – if the eggs are too fresh the shell sticks to the white, so I use older eggs for this lesson. There’s no date on the eggs or egg box, so age is guesswork or the float-in-water test. If they float they’re old.

The hard yolk is scooped out of each half of egg and mashed with salad cream – yum.
‘Put this mixture back in the egg with a spoon, or use this piping bag and twirl it back into the egg like this.’
I pipe an impressive, golden, eggy twirl and top with a sprig of parsley.
Janice lets out a squeal.
‘It looks like yellow poo. Who’d eat that?’
Vegetable fiddling is next. Tomatoes are cut into lilies with pointed edges, and filled with salad cream and cottage cheese – a new ingredient on our shop shelves.
Radishes cut roses and sliced spring onions become tassels. This fussed over veg is dunked into freezing water to open up and lose its nutrients.

spring onion tassels

Spring onion tassels which open in iced water.

They are eager to get on.
‘OK – eggs then salad – we’ll do the lettuce later.’
They rush off to choose the largest egg or tomato. There’s always whines and swapping.
‘Miss, we don’t eat salad.’
‘Miss, her cucumber’s bigger than mine.’
‘Can I have tomato instead of this green stuff?’
At last they are sorted and busy. Eggs are twirled and salad chopped.
I dump droopy lettuces in a butler’s sink full of ice cold water. Examiners don’t like this , so I warn the class that the Vitamin C which will seep into the water, and the limp lettuce will not be so nutritious.
‘Come round and I’ll show you how to serve the salad.’
I remove the lettuce, radish and spring onions from cold water, and pat them dry with a tea towel. No fancy salad spinners here.
‘Place in colourful sections on a plate, sprinkle with bits of mustard and cress and serve with a jug of SALAD CREAM.’
What a fuss for something which today would be chopped, tossed and served in bowl!

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Filed under Boys cooking, Foods of the 1970s, Home Economics in 1970, Salads in the 1970s

Prawn cocktail

We never cook with prawns, shrimps, crabs or lobsters in the classroom.  These crustaceans are just too expensive for everyday food, and remain a treat for those who can afford to eat out. My east end students know a lot about cockles, winkles and whelks dredged from the mud of the Thames estuary. These delicacies are sold on the fish stalls outside busy pubs at the weekend, and you eat them sprinkled liberally with brown vinegar squirted from a rather grubby white plastic bottle.  The chewy, muscley  flesh of these weird sea creatures is peppered with crunchy sand and small stones, and more than I can bear.  Thankfully we don’t need to know about it for the EXAM, and Cookery for Schools shares my dislike

‘The flesh of shellfish is considerably less digestible than that of white and oily fish, and is not universally popular.’

The book clumps lobsters, crayfish and crabs as shellfish so hey ho, gourmets everywhere, they should be cheap if they are that unpopular!

Prawn cocktail is a favourite restaurant dish of the seventies, particularly in the bargain Berni  Inns, which are famous for steak and chips and Black Forest Gateau.

This posh starter is served in a wine glass and made from prawns mixed with Marie Rose sauce, plonked on top of chopped limp lettuce.  To my alarm, the wine glass comes on a saucer with a frilly doyley, with slices of brown bread and butter.  It is the doyley that upsets me.  Don’t  Berni Inns know the first rule of doyley use?  Plain for savoury, frilly for sweet dishes.

In Wicksteed Park, where I worked as a waitress in my school holidays, the chef had huge glass jars of readymade, pale pink Heinz Marie Rose sauce to dollop into the prawn cocktail glass.  Its yucky ingredients were a mix of salad cream and tomato ketchup, which he had to mix up from the two components when the jar ran out.

H.E. Bates, an author who grew up in Northamptonshire, wrote his famous books, The Darling Buds of May about Pop Larkin and his family.  How I chuckled when I read When the Green Woods Laugh, when Pop and Ma visit the Jerebohm’s house for dinner where Pop thinks everything looks trés snob. The meal starts with prawn cocktail and this is a treasured paragraph.

‘Pop finds himself staring down at a small green glass dish in which reposed a concoction consisting of five prawns, a spoonful of soapy pink sauce and a sixth prawn hanging over  the edge of the glass as if searching for any of its mates that might have fallen overboard. You could have eaten the lot, Pop thought, with two digs of an egg-spoon.’

My grandfather told me once that he’d taught H.E. Bates at Kettering Grammar School in the nineteen twenties.  I was stunned, and desperate to ask more questions.  By this time my grandfather was in the twilight zone and found grandchildren very irritating, but H.E. Bate’s books deliciously depict the Northamptonshire countryside where I grew up, and his prawn cocktail will stay with me forever. I’d love to know what my grandfather taught him.

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