Parritch

 

Parritch 

I hate porridge. It was one of my favourite foods as a small child until….Pakuranga Health Camp. Breakfast there consisted of porridge made in a huge pot and toast. Unfortunately, the person in charge of stirring the pot never did a very good job. As we stood in line holding out our plates waiting for the inevitable dollop from a soup ladle, my stomach began to revolt. This was not the smooth well-cooked porridge made with love by my mother. It was full of dry lumps of uncooked oats surrounded by thick sludgy uneatable porridge. Those of us unable to eat this awful concoction had to stay behind as we gagged and some vomited. Eventually we were released to go to school. To this day the smell and sight of porridge makes me nauseous. I never ate it again.

 

Yet Parritch (the Scottish term for porridge) still follows me to this day. When my daughter comes to stay in the winter she asks for a big plate of it for breakfast. Initially buying the small one serve packets which included flavours or dried fruit, but she did not like them so returned to proper oats. I cook it in the microwave, always dreading the possibility of needing to add extra water and be forced to smell the awful mush.

 

When my children were young, they were started on solids with mashed banana and a small amount of freshly cooked porridge put through the mouli. Always holding my nose to try and avoid the smell which made my stomach churn, they had to eat it as quickly as possible. Usually I spooned it into their mouth while looking the other way reading a book. As they grew older huge pots of porridge were made each morning which they devoured before they went to school. Even washing the pot after they had left made me queasy. In those days sugar was sprinkled on liberally, golden syrup was lathered on, and fresh creamy farm milk was poured over their cereal. Anyone coming in late for breakfast received my wrath at having to hold my nose while reheating the gluggy cold mass left in the pot.

 

Trying steel cut rolled oats, jumbo oats, and then smooth creamed oatmeal which no one liked eventually I resorted to cooking the ordinary rolled oats and holding my nose in an attempt not to feel very ill. A large plate of porridge, then a cooked breakfast, plus lots of toast was the norm on farms.

One of my abiding porridge memories is cooking for a group of scouts when camping next to a lake in the autumn. Only having a gas stove with two elements, one was already assigned to heating water for hot drinks. As the wind whipped through the trees after crossing the lake, a group of very cold young boys had to wait for over an hour for their breakfast as I stirred and stirred trying to get the oats and freezing water to cook. The next time the scouts went camping a large packet of weetbix was taken.

 

Then microwaves were available for sale. Determined to be an early user, I bought one on the pretext it would be useful for cooking and re-heating meals when coming in after dark from feeding calves. What a revelation it was. No longer having to stand over a huge pot stirring for ages until it was smooth and well-cooked was wonderful. As each person arrived for breakfast I could cook their cereal in a couple of minutes and hand it to them piping hot. Best of all, the awful odour could be avoided. Soon adept at how much water to add, how long to cook it for, and the consistency each person liked, making porridge suddenly stopped being such an awful experience. I even managed to reheat it without having to cover my nose and hold my breath.        

 

When staying with my mother at one stage I was quite put off oats again when she cooked them in the evening after dinner. The pot was then left on the stove to go cold and thick until morning. Adding milk, she stirred slowly for several minutes and seemed to thoroughly enjoy her plate of reheated cereal. I gagged.

Recently I discovered some people enjoy eating porridge cold. Sounds disgusting.

 

Did I ever eat any type of oats again? Yes, making myself a huge tray of muesli which was stored in various containers and devoured both for breakfast and sometimes as a treat after dinner was delicious. Oil was poured over the dry oats and they were cooked in the oven until golden and crispy. Adding dried fruit, nuts, seeds, coconut, anything that took my fancy made it extra special. Bought muesli and granolas were often dry and reminded me of my childhood trauma with porridge.

 

The smell or thought of porridge still makes me gag, even writing this story has been difficult. No longer able to eat Anzac biscuits, making some for a friend a couple of years ago meant my dog decided they looked nice and she stole several off the bench as they cooled. While many have suggested trying to eat parritch again again I simply cannot imagine even putting a spoonful in my mouth. I have huge respect for people who explain they avoid certain foods for a variety of reasons. While they may be foods we enjoy, the trauma which can be invoked in them needs to be respected. Remember tripe? I still cannot eat tamarillos after someone gave me a plate of them cooked. I will happily stick to my cornflakes or weetbix and a banana. 

It took me a long time to feel comfortable writing this story. A photo on a cooking website, someone raving about porridge, being asked if I wanted to buy organic oats, all make me feel nauseous. It is definitely an example of what forcing someone to eat something they have an aversion to can cause life long damage. Apart from this I hope you have enjoyed this short story.