Quench the Lamp by Alice Taylor

Author:Alice Taylor [Alice Taylor]
Language: eng
Format: epub
ISBN: 9781847177629
Publisher: The O'Brien Press
Published: 2014-08-23T04:00:00+00:00

Anyone For Pandy?

MY MOTHER BOILED a big, black pot of potatoes for the dinner every day except Sunday. Whether there were to be ten or twenty for the dinner, the same big pot was hung over the fire; the dangling pot-hangers were threaded through its ears while flames licked around its black bottom. A tin bucketful of purple potatoes was then poured in, thumping off the bottom and sides before being packed down under the iron cover. These spuds came straight from the bosom of mother earth and there was no need to limit the supply as there were plenty more where they came from. Another reason why so many went into the pot was because hungry spud-consumers came in five successive categories: human beings, cats, dogs, fowl and pigs. We, as befitted the supposedly most civilised of the five species, got the first bite.

The flowery spuds were judged ready for removal when they started to smile across the top of the pot. A huge ware dish, reminiscent of a feast Henry VIII might have held, was then placed in the centre of the kitchen table and potatoes were poured into it until there was a mountain of them. Smaller, younger members of the household facing each other across the table had to wait for the mountain to be demolished before they could gain sight of each other again. As the potato mountain diminished small hills of skins arose, until all were satisfied.

Jacket potatoes were the order of the day, but occasionally the luxury of pandy came our way. You were not judged worthy of pandy unless you were very young, very ill or “feeling delicate”, as my father termed the state of being out of harmony with the world. Today pandy might be called mashed potato by the unenlightened, but it was not quite the same thing.

Pandy first required a big, soft, flowery spud with a long smile across its face. Starting at the smile, the skin was eased off gently and the naked spud, almost too hot to handle, was transferred fast by hand into another plate, leaving its clothes in a heap behind it. Next a lump of yellow butter was placed on top, from where it ran in little yellow streams down the sides. A gentle little poke with the fork opened up a cavity into which went a drop of milk or a spoon of cream skimmed off the top of the bucket, followed by a shake of salt. Finally, the entire slushy combination was lightly whipped together and frequently tasted to ascertain that the correct balance was being achieved. It took great care and a discerning palate to make really good pandy; it had to be yellow, soft, delicately flavoured, and as light as thistledown on the tongue. When you were sick or not feeling happy you judged how much your mother and the world loved you by the quality of her pandy. It was our antibiotic, our tranquilizer and our sleeping potion.

The royal

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