Mayo memories: Reheated dinners, one-sided toast and short trousers
By Tom Gillespie
IN pre-microwave days keeping meals warm for latecomers was a chore in itself. The plated dinner or tea was placed on a saucepan of hot water and left on the range or gas cooker to bubble away until the arrival of its eater.
In those days we had dinner at lunchtime and all the family’s dinners were prepared at the one time.
Those absent had to do with the hot plate meal from the saucepan - the downside being that whatever gravy was added to the meal would have long been evaporated, leaving just a skin type replica of what should have been maybe the highlight of the meal.
Breakfast time when I was in national and secondary school was, during the winter, the mandatory porridge.
This offering would have been prepared and cooked the night before.
However, before you sat down to eat it in the morning you had to remove the thick skin which would have formed on top of the porridge. If you had the misfortune of scooping some of the skin into your bowl it destroyed the entire meal.
In pre-toaster times we had a long handled, three-pronged fork on to which we impaled the slice of bread - it was always white then - and held it in front of the open fire or range until it was toasted.
Any distraction and you ended up with blackened, burned toast which was binned. On your next attempt you concentrated on the mission in hand.
We were happy with the one-sided slice of toast which we gobbled down with a spreading of homemade jam or marmalade. Delicious.
Sunday breakfast was always a special treat in our house. In those days - the 1950s and ‘60s - we attended Mass, fasting from the night before if receiving Holy Communion.
Returning from Chapel Street to Marian Row, the smell of breakfasts cooking in the houses was torture, especially the smell of frying rashers as the aroma carried in the air.
We lived at number nine and passing the eight houses to our home we got the various breakfast smells wafting to our noses, making us look forward to our mother’s fry-up.
As we got older attending Sunday Mass did not, to us youngsters, seem as important as it did to our parents. However, while we mitched from the religious ceremony, walking around the town within friends, it was vital to know the name of the priest on the altar as we were quizzed as to his identity when we got home.
Going to Sunday Mass had its rituals. You wore your best clothes and shoes or, in summer, sandals.
Once home you changed into your everyday wear and the good clothes and footwear were put away for another week.
Likewise, when we made our First Communion or Confirmation, the new suit, with short pants, yes, for both ceremonies, were stripped off after the ceremony, and we reverted to the usual day wear.
It was not until we got older that we progressed from the short pants to a fully fledged pair of long pants.
The new long-legged apparel took some getting used to as our legs had been exposed since birth.
On the up side, the longer version were a God send when we went ‘hunting’ through the woods and fields as they protected bare legs from nettles stings and cuts from thorny briars.
And we could wear wellingtons - those who could afford a pair - in comfort, whereas with the short pants the rubber boots cut into our legs, as we did not have proper wellington stockings, which after a day's running around would be pretty sore, and worst scenario skinned.
And if you had the misfortune to be wearing the then fashionable ribbed corduroy short pants your upper legs were also marked and sore.
Such inflictions were bearable during the week, but to sustain them on a Saturday meant further torture as we had the mandatory bath that evening, in preparation for Sunday Mass, and having your legs immersed in hot water was pretty painful to say the least.
We spent all our free time outdoors and our playground was Baynes’ Hill, as was the surrounding countryside.
And, if, per chance, we had a fall of snow, the hill was a marvellous winter wonderland and attracted youngsters from all over Castlebar.