The YBFs
Earlier this year I entered the Young British Foodie “Fresh Voices in Writing” competition, known as the YBFs. These awards are judged by respected figures in the food world and offer a valuable chance for recognition. My entry didn’t win—Livvy Potts took the prize—but the experience was worthwhile and her honest, engaging blog is a pleasure to read.
Now the event is over and the red carpet has been packed away, I want to share my entry. I hope you enjoy it.
Childhood Memories of Food
A kidney-shaped pool of insipid gravy gathered at the edge of my plate, a meat-tinted puddle from my youth while Mrs Thatcher flickered on the television. The liquid was mottled with a thin veneer of fat that broke into small circular bubbles of different sizes, each resting against its neighbor like buoyant beads along a still riverbank.
A flotilla of tiny bubbles filled the spaces between larger ones, down to pinhead size. I found their symmetry quietly fascinating—more attractive to me then than the food on the plate. A small nudge sent the bubbles skittering in a hurried swirl, compressing into ovals as they collided, only to spring back into perfect circles once still.
While my father attacked the plate with washing-up liquid and a scouring pad, my favourite game was to manipulate those fat bubbles. Using the tines of a fork, I would break the edge of one circle so it merged with its neighbor. The neat boundaries briefly became wild, untidy lines before the bubbles joined, their brief release of order barely perceptible.
I prodded with my battered fork, cutting through each delicate rim. The masses combined into larger, more dominant circles—one by one I ruptured the smaller ones, bringing them into the fold of a growing leader. What had been an armada of globules turned into a single amorphous blob, its outline straining against the curved rim of the plate. Only minute specks of fat remained—insignificant fragments that darted around the prongs of my fork and resisted being absorbed. They were untamable.
“Have you finished? No pudding ’til you’ve finished.” Our world fell apart.
A few lonely potatoes remained, providing a faux-Alpine backdrop to my gravy lake. Their browned crust seemed to defend them against inevitable defeat. Reluctantly and with a pang of remorse, I mashed a cold, powdery potato into the unemulsified pool, aware I was destroying my carefully ordered microcosm.
There was, however, a strange consolation. My liquid companions had given themselves up so another could live, offering themselves to the only reward a boiled potato might know: companionship on a plate. Their sacrifice was quiet and unquestioning, a small, heroic act against the threat of pudding. They understood their temporary place in a world that rarely wanted them—unloved and uncared for—yet, for a brief moment, they were cherished by a small boy who found meaning in their shapes and motions.