I remember little pots of cockles and prawns with vinegar on daytrips to Blackpool.
I remember boiled new potatoes, salt and butter from a paper bag on Rochdale market.
I remember sliced buttered white bread on the table and pint pots of tea.
I remember dumplings in broth at my grandma’s.
I remember pie and peas on Bonfire Night.
I remember Fray Bentos pies and Bigga Marrowfat peas in a tin.
I remember party pies at parties and cubed pineapple and cheese on cocktail sticks.
I remember Vespa curries on a Friday night, rice boiled in a bag and arranged in a ring on the plate.
I remember chip butties: chipped potatoes fried in a pan of boiling lard and drained in a colander, thick white bread with good butter.
I remember they were the only thing my dad cooked.
I remember they were good.
I remember we had to say they were good.