Fishguard, potatoes and all that

One Sunday last month we sat down to our 'cinio dydd Sul' promptly at twelve. (Peter is a man who likes everything operating like clockwork and I am usually hungry.) It turned out to be an expensive meal and I'm not talking about the new potatoes, either.

My husband is a man of refined tastes. When presented with a meal, he scrutinises it carefully. (No. It doesn't irritate me. I'm used to him).  Before he had thyroid problems and lost a stone in weight, his meal-time mantra was:   'Not much for me', but now he sets to without prevarication. 

Today, we had pork wrapped in pancetta with sage stuffing, courtesy of Marks and Spencer's. I cooked it in the oven in a broth of apple juice with fresh thyme leaves, so it had a roasted crust on top and the main part of the joint was tenderised by the juice. With this we had cabbage, (it must be finely sliced for him and, really, he does not know how fortunate he is that I like cooking), parsnips, carrots, the gold plated potatoes, apple sauce (bottled), and gravy. Vegetables must be well cooked (don't mention al dente, or he'll snort.)

We were going along nicely when a gurgly noise came from his direction. He opened his mouth and out popped a mercury filling the size of a small boulder. (The irony was that he'd only had the filling put in three weeks ago). This was placed on a side plate which he contemplated silently for a few seconds before saying: 'The dentist said  if it did not hold I'd need a crown.'  (I was relieved the food was of a mushy consistency, so no blame there).

  

Being a man who hates waste, he recovered sufficiently to finish the meal. When we'd had yoghurt and a cup of tea, my thoughts went back to the solanum tuberosum (potatoes) and Fishguard.

Peter's favourite foods are bread and potatoes. His preference is flavourless food. Keiller's Ginger marmalade, for instance, which I love, is eschewed by him so I have learnt to cook what he likes. Looking at Nita Sybil Evans's cook book, she has very few savoury dishes, apart from a meat and potato pie.

When we married, my husband was twenty five and a teacher in one of the Fishguard schools. There were few jobs in that area so, for almost a year, I was a housewife. Although we lived just a five minute walk from the school he came home at lunch time only once a week. (There was an expectation in the school that you waited on the premises during the mid-day recess).

Once a week a van came from Milford Haven with fresh fish. On this particular day, I made a cod fish pie. (Nothing complicated, poach the fish in milk, add a bay leaf if you have it, and pepper and salt. The fish is cooked when the flakes fall apart. Drain the fish and put it in a pie dish. Make half a pint of  parsley sauce with butter, flour, a pinch of salt, milk and a bunch of chopped parsley. Simmer until it thickens and pour over the fish. Top with buttery mashed potato, grated cheese and decorate with a thinly sliced tomato. Brown under the grill for five minutes.

Now the point of this story is not the pie, but what happened while I was preparing it. We had a 'Rediffusion' radio (we were given lots of pointless wedding presents like grapefruit spoons, EPNS cake stands, but no one had given us a radio).

Over the radio came the news that U2 pilot, Gary Powers, had been shot down over the Ural Mountains of Russia. I'd never heard of him before. I had no interest in Russia, the Cold War, pilots or anything like that but, somehow, immediately, I connected with his plight. He was only twenty two. I decided he'd made a mistake; 'strayed over'  was the phrase that stuck in my mind.  How could it have happened?

Now, I can't eat cod fish pie without remembering  that day, May 1, 1960. The fire burning in the grate, the table laid for our meal and Gary Powers on his way to a Russian Jail.