Dripping

No healthy oils but beef dripping kept solid in a white enamel can with a lid in a cupboard under the oven. Reused until too dark and heavy with sediments, the dregs flavored the best chips. Mothers carried the war year's frugal habits into the fifties and so it was with mine. My Mum could make a feast out of almost nothing and gave little to the bin. There was an observed formality for meals, all of us had to sit at the table, elbows at the side and recite the customary grace. No getting up until excused, no talking with your mouth full, no reaching across someone else's plate, every request had to be prefaced or end with a ‘please’. Something of the sacred gave dignity to the rituals of preparation and consumption of food. It wore the presence of a gift. Not sure if today's abundance is better or worse - no matter - as we eat whatever and whenever in haste, plugged in and sedated by a mind-numbing choice, our progress is measured in waste.