JACK’S FAREWELL:

IT all began with talk about the food delights of childhood.

Lockdown Britain has been buzzing with stories of a surge in bread making and the bake-off to end all bake-offs.

But nobody ever mentions the delicacy my mother used to make – the humble coconut macaroon.

I savoured these lightly browned, crusty sweets the size of an egg. She made them from bags of desiccated coconut from the Co-op.

I can just remember the pleasure of biting into the soft centre, after nicking one from the pantry.

My mother didn’t have an oven – other than the coal-fired range – until well into the 1950s, and that was a second-hand gas monster that frightened the life out of her, and me. Yet she turned out macaroons, jam tarts and mince pies by the dozen on baking day, which from memory was Thursday.

Every day was a something day for housewives in those days.

On top of that came rice puddings to die for, rhubarb and apple pies, and Yorkshire puddings for Sunday dinner – not lunch – in a big square tin that could have fed the King’s Own Yorkshire Light Infantry.

The adage is that nobody cooks like your mother and, without wishing to enter into marital controversy, or get my eggs underdone, there is some truth in that.

There wasn’t much to be thankful for in the postwar years – except survival – but this home-cooked food, often warm from the oven, was a real comfort.

So much better than “shopbought” stuff because your mam had made it for you.

If the pandemic has revived the art of home cooking, which used to be taught as domestic science, some good has come out of the ordeal.