Mark of a good kitchen is somewhere to make a great pot of soup
Not all houses had fridges. Back in the 70s my aged great aunt in Dunoon told my mother that she didn’t trust them. No idea why not.
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Hide AdShe preferred her bottle of milk from the dairy across the road to be kept outside in a sort of locker with slatted wooden sides. The butter lived there, too, in a glass dish. The arrangement worked well in the winter. Runny butter was regularly poured over summer toast.
The first fridge we had was tiny, with a minute little freezer compartment just big enough for an ice cube tray and a packet of neon coloured ice poles.
They kept kids quiet for hours, mainly because 20 minutes of sooking on a frozen pole numbed your entire mouth. Also, your tongue turned brilliant green (lime flavour).
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Hide AdMum’s first machine wasn’t even plumbed in. It couldn’t be, because she had to manhandle the massive twin tub out to hook it up to the taps. When it went into spin you could sit on it and impersonate Shirley Bassey singing Goldfinger. The shuddering gave you just the right amount of wobble to the vocal cords.
We had an electric cooker. One of the elements blew on it. My dad “fixed” it, like he fixed all the various wonky bits of mid-century wiring.
Not very long after he died, we called out an electrician to take a look at it. He took one glance, checked around the house and ordered the lot of us to stand outside, explaining to my mum that dad’s electrical repairs appeared to be an attempt by my father to take us with him.
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Hide AdNothing beeped, pinged or flashed. The kettle whistled. You had to turn it off manually. But you could still make a great pot of soup, and that is the mark of a good kitchen. As is a dishwasher, of course. Nostalgia only goes so far.