Grainy Memories

"Health Food." Until relatively recently, the very phrase was a tautology. As with "loud American" or "corrupt politician," the adjective wasn't necessary, because there wasn't junk food or nutritionists around to invent such a superfluous category. Which is not to say that everything our grandparents ate was automatically healthy - quite the contrary - just that any fetishizing of particular foodstuffs as good for you would have seemed inane. Eating was good, not eating was bad. End of story.

As for myself, I was blissfully unaware of health food until the age of 10, when my father returned from whatever it is recently divorced men do in their thirties while in Europe for six years. Up until then my mother was juggling work and grizzly kids, getting home after dark and feeding us a daily ration of one soft-boiled egg and tinned-spaghetti on toast. I happily slurped this mono-meal down while sitting in front of The Goodies and Doctor Who, and as far as my memory serves, I ate this meal nearly every night between the age of 4 and 10.

When my father returned to his paternal duties, my sister and I spent every alternate week at his place. This was the late 1970s - the Renaissance of whole-grains and tofu - and it seemed that he had decided to make-up for his prolonged absence by filling our stomachs with stodgy hippy fare. Confronted by two pale waiflings, he proceeded to feed us red-kidney bean pie, elaborate tempeh curries, fresh fig salads, and something slightly blue which I never quite caught the name of (although it sounded vaguely Hungarian). Indeed dad's idea of an after-school treat was a carrot stick. I think it was around this time that I started having nightmares about a stern old patriarch called Mr. Vogel.

This crusade for our health extended to the playground. When the other kids picked up their canteen lunches of sausage rolls, space-food sticks, twisties and a sunny boy, I unveiled a veritable hamper of Pritikin-inspired victuals, including dried apricots, camembert, pistachio nuts, apples and 9-grain buns filled with chickpeas (or "fairies bums" as my dad used to call them, in a deluded attempt to make them more interesting). Needless to say, I was a prime target for bullies, and didn't see any connection between these sophisticated snacks and my health or well-being. More often than not it would lead to a dead arm or Chinese burn.

Dad's diet must have made some impression, however, because I now voluntarily eat a healthy diet, and still shudder at the thought of tinned-spaghetti. Unfortunately, my efforts to scale the nutrition pyramid have had little effect on my overall nourishment level. During my group-house days I would continue to endure the scorn of my Two-Minute-Noodle peers while I ground my own muesli and drank a glass of spirulina. Despite my best efforts, however, I was always the one that caught the flu, while they raged into the night with their 2 litre cokes and cyborg immune systems.

Which has led me to believe that health food is something you must suffer for; like art, love or god. It may not exist, in fact, yet I feel I should have faith in it. At least until Mr. Vogel stops haunting my dreams.

© Dominic Pettman