Whatever generation you’re from, these delectable recreations of retro favourites from Catherine Devaney are bound to delight.
Generation X, Generation Y, or Generation Z. Which one are you?
Recently confronted with this question, I came to the swift realisation that although I hear these categories bandied around I don’t understand what they mean, or where I fit in.
I do at least know that Baby Boomer came first (this lodged in my pre-digital consciousness because Trivial Pursuit released a Baby Boomer edition in the 1980s and I couldn’t answer any of the questions).
But beyond that, this new system of classification eludes me. I’m utterly clueless as to when Generation X begins/ends and the next one starts. I’m further confused by the apparent inter-changeability between Generation Y and Millennial.
Is this something one is supposed to know in modern life, along with emojis and QR codes? Did I come of age around the millennium? The jury’s out on that one.
Delia taught me to boil an egg and I remember listening to Pulp’s Year 2000 when the title of the song seemed an impossibly far-off date. Go figure.
Millennials
I first heard the term “millennial” at a food and drink conference, more than a few years ago, when I got chatting to an inspiring young woman, formidably tech-savvy, who told me about her plan to develop popped sorghum snacks. “Aimed at millennials, as an alternative bar snack,” she told me.
Nodding sagely I was struck by the sinking feeling that I didn’t know what a millennial was, compounded by the realisation that I was probably too old to qualify. Since then I’ve always looked out for popped sorghum.
She deserved to succeed, but since I’m too ground down by children and a dearth of babysitters to frequent the kind of places she was describing – hip places, where bowls of snacks are laid casually on the bar and cocktails are ordered – I’m more likely to find it if she changes her target market to the Pom Bear Generation, whose snacks are strewn casually underneath the
sofa.
Perhaps a simpler, non-alphabetically based descriptor for my kin might be Generation Kia Ora. Or Generation Dairylea. Old enough to remember the sheer, fluorescent joy of that iconic orange squash, and the patient skill required to carefully open those little foil-wrapped triangles of nothing resembling real cheese.
Love of food
Quite how a child of the Eighties, of fairly modest means, could grow up to have such a love of food is a little mysterious to me. I don’t broadcast it but I harbour a secret affection for Wimpy burgers and toasted teacakes, frozen potato waffles and pop tarts, Sara Lee strawberry gateau and those little pots of ice cream they used to sell in cinemas during the intermission.
They lurk in the dark vestiges of my soul, a guilty secret suppressed as I feed Generation Halloumi their chickpea burgers and organic veg. I even remember the days when Pret a Manger was niche.
Don’t get me wrong, I’m not a secret troller of the frozen aisle, but I will admit to a little flare of excitement if I should happen to walk past a Pancake Place.
But there’s a time and a place for everything. That my granny gave me free rein to put seven spoons of sugar in my tea, aged six, doesn’t mean I now take sugar in my coffee. We might have been raised on crispy pancakes and E numbers but we invented avocado toast and almond milk lattes (until we realised they’re tantamount to environmental genocide and stopped ordering them).
We are at least partly responsible for the exponential growth in farm shops, the renaissance of butchers, we are a generation who understand seasonality and sustainable fishing, we buy local, have helped support many local food businesses through lockdown and would willingly swap a weekend in Ikea for a good trawl round a farmers’ market. So while our formative years in food might need a little reputational laundering, the stain is not indelible.
Buy local
And with barbecue season well and truly upon us, there’s never been a better time to explore what you can buy locally.
As well as the usual staples for the grill, many butchers make speciality varieties of their own sausages, so don’t overlook the humble banger. I’m a great believer in keeping barbecues as simple as possible. I was absolutely thrilled with my recent discovery of a Tuscan sausage made with white wine and parmesan by my trusty local butcher.
Posh dogs, grilled to perfection, comfort the dark corner of the Generation Ikea soul that yearns for a hot dog yet knows such a craving is unspeakably bad. Cooked on a searing hot barbecue, in a pillowy brioche bun with sweet caramelised onions and homemade tomato relish, it’s what summer days were made for. Leave the ketchup in the cupboard please, it has no place here.
Caramelised onions are simple to make, with just a little time and patience. It’s worth trying to slice the onions as thinly as you can (a very sharp knife helps). Take two red onions, slice thinly and put in a pot with a tablespoon of unsalted butter, a splash of olive oil and two tablespoons of balsamic vinegar.
Put the pot on a medium heat and stir to coat the onions in butter and oil as it melts. Then leave the pot on a low heat, keeping the heat low so the onions release their sugars slowly, stirring occasionally until the onions are soft and golden, caramelised and smell divine. They’re ready to spoon over the hotdog straight off the grill (you can also make them in advance and reheat in a pot just before serving).
To make your own tomato relish, start by finely dicing one large shallot (or two smaller ones), two cloves of garlic and one red chilli (de-seeded). Saute gently in a splash of olive oil until the onions and garlic are golden, then add 500g of vine tomatoes, diced. When it comes to anything tomato-based, the proof of the pudding lies in the quality of the tomatoes.
Here, the quality of the ingredient really pays dividends in the flavour stakes and at this time of year there’s no excuse for anything under-ripe or flavourless. Seek out the freshest market tomatoes, literally bursting with the flavour of sunshine, and if you’re lucky enough to have them homegrown then all power to you (someone really should bottle that scent of warm, freshly picked greenhouse tomato).
With the tomatoes in the pan, add four tablespoons of soft brown sugar and four tablespoons of red wine vinegar. Throw in a pinch of salt then stir everything well. Leave the mixture on a medium heat to reduce and thicken for about half an hour, stirring occasionally. Adjust the seasoning to taste, then decant to a bowl to cool and chill in the fridge until the posh dogs are ready.
Pineapple carpaccio
Since summer doesn’t last long in these parts, why not finish on a tropical note with pineapple carpaccio. Peel and core the pineapple, then slice it very thinly and lay out on a platter.
Mix together the juice and zest of two fresh limes, one tablespoon of brown sugar, one tablespoon of Amaretto and a couple of sprigs of fresh mint, finely chopped. Spoon over the pineapple and leave in the fridge to marinade for 20-30 minutes before serving with a spoonful of coconut yoghurt.
It’s limey like a 1980s Opal Fruit on steroids, honey sweet, cut through with the grassy freshness of summer mint and tempered by coconut creaminess.
Pineapples are one of those fruits the enjoyment of which is so easily ruined by an out-of-season neep-like hardness. But a truly ripe pineapple in the height of summer, dripping with juice, fragrant with the warmth of distant palms and powdery beaches, is a gorgeous thing indeed.
And all the more so for the memory of the man from Del Monte that it conjures up for Generation Kia Ora.
More in this series …
Kitchen Life: Making new memories while remembering those we’ve lost
