Who Needs Brains

When I was young, about fourteen, I had to get a part time job if I was to have any clothes to wear apart from the tat my mother picked up from the opportunity shops.

My father was of that genre that believed if a child could walk and talk then it could work.

My first part time job was working at an old people's home that was in the next suburb away from where we lived. I had to catch a train and then walk for about ten minutes from the station to get to work.

I worked in the kitchen and dining area. If I was on the breakfast shift I had to go from place setting to place setting and put whatever cereal the oldies wanted into the bowl on the table.

Raw oats for old Mrs Very Wrinkly, muesli for old Mr Mustachio, corn flakes for Mrs Hairy Chin, porridge for Mr Yellow Teeth. You get the idea.

I know it sounds mean the way I recall them, but I was only fourteen and you can imagine how ancient these old folks were to me. Old and scary.

Once they all shuffled in for breakfast I would come around and see what else was wanted. Milk, tea, fresh toast, coffee or juice. They were all very sweet to me, even the old men who would squeeze my bottom on a regular basis which I found totally creepy but did not know how to handle it and just giggled which only encouraged more groping and the cycle continued to the point where I became anxious about it each time I worked there.

After breakfast I would clean up, wash dishes, mop the floor and, if on a full days work, would help the cook get the lunch ready.

The cook was this giant woman from Germany. She wore thick glasses and had a drooping bottom lip that hung down and showed the receding gums of her bottom teeth all the time. She always dressed in a shabby dress that was covered by an equally shabby apron. Bare legs were not allowed in the kitchen so she would wear thick, grey tights irrespective of the weather and her big feet were enclosed in leather clogs.

I used to have to help her get lunch ready and I would have to say it was a most revolting experience. Mainly because the food was so disgusting.

One time lambs brains was on the menu. Well, more than one time when I think about it. Although I was familiar with some pretty strange food being of the foreign factor myself, I could never get my head around the eating of brains no matter how interestingly they were dished up.

Anyway, the butcher delivered the bucket of brains to the the kitchen door of the nursing home. I opened the lid and there they were, lambs brains floating in water like some sort of hideous Frankenstein experiment was in progress. The cook then told me to take them out of the bucket and drop them into the sink that she had filled with water. The brains popped out of my wet hands like soft, ugly little heads and splashed into the sink. I did make a game of it. How could I not.

After this slippery and unpleasant episode I had to peel the outer membrane off each brain. I baulked at this as she showed me how to do it, her hard yellow fingernails piercing the fine membrane that covered the brain and then peeling it off in one motion and leaving it to drift aimlessly in the sink full of water like some sort dirty piece of silk petticoat.

Once I had done the deed I then crumbed them and she cooked the poor things. There were loads of them, all golden brown and piled up in the stainless steel dishes that sat underneath the warming lights. Those brains were a hit, nearly everyone had seconds and it was served up with bubble and squeak, another thing I never liked.

Other times we would have potted meat which in itself was an experience to make. There were a few dishes that featured tripe. One was tripe and onion in pastry. I kid you not, the most disgusting thing I have encountered. Although, the dishes that had kidney or liver in them would come a close second on the horrible food scale.

Desserts were always nice. Old fashioned bread and butter pudding. Stewed fruits and freshly made custard. Lovely vanilla ice cream with home made waffles. Sometimes the cook would make fruitcake for afternoon tea. Many times we would serve up soft, white scones all hot with fresh cream and sweet strawberry jam.

It is my belief that desserts were invented only as a reward for eating gross food such as brains, kidney and liver. Oh, and tripe.

I worked there part time for about twelve months and then got fired because I had lied about my age when I first started. What was the big deal about that? I worked hard and did all that I was meant to. It should not have mattered that I increased my age by a couple of years.

Years later I was out on a date with some guy and on the menu was crumbed lambs brains. I decided to give them a go. Much to the disgust of my date, I ordered the lambs brains and awaited their arrival with trepidation. When they were plonked down in front of me I realised that everything I believed applied to the appearance, smell and taste of a lambs brain was about to be confirmed.

I took one bite of the offending bit of offal upon which it made a squeaking noise as my teeth sunk deeper into the chewy texture. I made an involuntary gag and dropped the bitten piece of food out of my mouth and let it fall onto my plate.

Needless to say, I was not asked out again.

Neither have I eaten brains since.

I did eat snails cooked in garlic and butter once. To this day I can recall the vile sensation of putting that snot like hermaphrodite in my mouth where it squeaked as I bit it. I then swallowed hard to get rid of it (in a more lady like fashion) and it sat wedged in my throat like a piece of rubber for ages. I had to eat a big ice cream to force it down.

One should not eat food that squeaks.

No wonder I have food aversions.

Blech.

Ciao
LC