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My aunt Bumbo could always be relied upon to bring something not generally obtainable, and with these treasured ingredients she made a trifle with thick cream custard and a large tin of fruit salad. In an age of package meals and take outs, it has become more apparent to me that my joys come from savouring the cooking and eating process, and journeying from famine to feast. Just like love, food should not come and go quickly. 

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Mrs Nash, our next door-next neighbour from 1940, had turned her backyard into a Dig for Victory cornucopia of  potatoes, sweetcorn, onions, cabbages, carrots, and a very productive blackberry bush she shared with everyone who had good ‘swapsies’. In times of hardship people do rally together, and the end result can often lead to a strong and united community. Food is at the heart of my utopian experiences as it provides the nectar to unify and bond people more than anything else does.

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The feast for my father’s return party is forever engrained in my memory. A whole roast chicken stuffed with breadcrumbs, onions, and apples. Roast potatoes, many of them, carrots glistening with a whole 1oz of butter carefully saved from rations, boiled cabbage, and roasted onions made into a thick gravy with something akin to marmite and the stock from the chicken. I remember the blackberries liberally placed atop the trifle; Mrs Nash was so pleased. The preparation of this meal radiated happiness which was reflected in my father’s proud and replete face; all of this was to celebrate his return, a return jeopardised by combat, travel, and tuberculosis. This was a meal served to cement us together again as a family, and to remind my father of the life he left behind, how it had moved on (I was not a baby anymore), and how open its arms were to welcome him back into it.

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I was spoiled by my great aunt and uncle but I had to earn my food. When I went to stay with them in Andover, at breakfast time I had to collect the eggs in a straw lined basket which my aunt said I was to carry carefully—to drop it was not an option. I remember feeling quite accomplished on completing this particular task. My next job was laying the table. I spread crisp white linen cloth onto the table, and placed in the centre the silver cruet (the salt, pepper, and mustard) which was used at all meals, almost it seems quite reverently, since it had been a wedding present. One of my uncle’s monthly tasks was to polish it until it shone even brighter. With the addition of small side plates, a knife, and small spoon each the task was complete.

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When my uncle returned with a small silver churn of fresh milk he removed his boots at the door, washed his hands, and took his seat. My nan removed fresh bread from the oven, what an aroma—warm and comforting with its dark brown crust—a thing of beauty indeed. My eggs appeared with ceremony in egg cups on a tray together with freshly churned butter I made with my old great cousin next door. She had painstakingly talked me through this procedure on arrival at the farm. We turned the handle in the wooden churner forever, until the thick cream turned yellow. We fashioned it with wooden paddles. 

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With a wink and a smile my uncle took from his pocket a jar of his wonderful honey and with that breakfast would begin. It was delicious, not the least because I had had a hand in its production. Retrospectively, for me at any rate, it was complete bliss. 

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I can easily get lost in the reverie of times gone past. It is easy to idealise the past, however, my utopia, located in these memories, are not ones cleansed of sadness. If anything, the happiness I experienced was based on the love freely given, and a unit of people working to enjoy the fruits of their labour.

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In the creating of food we come face to face with life and death. To sustain ourselves we have to kill. In today’s Western society, many of us have become numb to the process of killing livestock, especially when more affordable meat is usually the product of a horrendously cruel farming process. On my aunty’s and uncle’s farm I learned of the luxury to eat meat and the sacrifice it requires. Chickens were scare and so could only be enjoyed on rare occasions. I learned how to wring a chicken’s neck and burn the plucked feathers; you burned off the remaining quill from the feathers on the gas stove. These feathers were gathered into my nan’s cornflower print apron, covering her voluminous lap. In the knowledge that nothing was wasted I looked again at aunty’s incredibly soft cushions and pondered: was this their fate? Instead of blindly eating food, ignorant to the origin of what I was eating, I appreciated where it came from, understood the farming and cooking process, and respected the importance of utilising every part of the animal. Knowledge plays a pivotal role in my interaction with food because only in knowing its journey to your plate can you obtain a meaningful encounter with it. 

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I was told not to puncture the gall bladder as we pulled out all the innards of the chicken as it would make the meat bitter. As my mind harkens back to that carnage with my blood stained hands, it brings a smile to my face. I walk down the supermarket aisles and see the plastic wrapped, mass produced offerings we have today and think of those days when the food process was raw, bloody, and naturally organic. My smile is made bigger still, when I think of some of my vegetarian friends who look upon me in horror when I relay this story. In those days I was very aware of where my food came from. I smile the smile not of a person who considers themselves superior, or of someone who revels in having experienced something others never will; my smile is one of fond revelry tinged with the disappointment that this experience, though still able to take place, is no longer common place.

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A loud bang from my uncle’s gun provided us with many rabbits. On her one and only visit to London, my aunty brought with her one (shot and hung). Utopia must be beautiful. The image of a bloody rabbit to many is horrific. But let’s not forget that beauty is in some forms of horror. Not the malicious kind, but in the natural process of things. For me there is a beauty in this dead rabbit, a glimpse at one of the elements of my utopia. In paintings of Arcadia there is usually a skull in the corner, a reminder that for utopia to exist there must be a sense of renewal which is reliant on endings.

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One of my most treasured moments of foodie nirvana came when I was 15 years old. It was a moment of enlightenment, and delivered me to a promised land of epicurean delights. The lady who opened the door into this good place was Anastasia, affectionally known to all as ‘Auntie’. She lived in the house of my boyfriend’s parents and did all the cooking. Auntie was Greek by birth and had spent a while living in Alexandria, Egypt. Her travel brought a unique combination of spices and flavours to her cooking.

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One day I arrived at my boyfriend’s house and was in the sitting room when I became aware of aromas I had never smelt before.

They were strong, heady, savoury, tomatoey, meaty, and an unusual onion smell that, later on, I realised was garlic. The nerves of meeting my boyfriend’s family were discarded by this unexpected distraction. The smell made me salivate, and I could not believe my luck when a plate of this joy was put before me. The beef was delicious and fell apart into the soft sweet onions and a sauce rich in tomato and oregano. I had never tasted anything quite so orgasmic. When commenting upon its scrumptiousness I was told “it’s only a stew’!”

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At her skilled hand I was privileged to be taught some of her takes on many Greek dishes. Keftedes (meat balls) were always a favourite, she did both wet and dry versions. Cheese pie, taramasalata, her roast potatoes…the list is almost endless. Every December, her Christmas pudding recipe still graces our kitchen, and I say a little thank to her and the joys she shared with me. 

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The scarcity experienced in my post-war youth enabled the creation of an environment where I felt pure joy in the communal consumption and preparation of food. Feast has the connotation of a huge banquet; for me it also brings to mind moments were food is shared wholeheartedly, and it is in these moments, in relief from famine, that I have reached my utopia.