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The New Zealand Railways Magazine, Volume 11, Issue 4 (July 1, 1936)

Mother Knows Best

Mother Knows Best.

The beef-eater says “‘nuts’ to nuts,” the vegetarian turns a cauliflower ear to the sins of the flesh, the oldest inhabitant of Waikikamookau cries, “beer kept me here,” and his contemporary at Urafake quavers, “I've always had beer and that's why I'm here.” It's all very confusing. But, in spite of all this gastronomous warring, we still maintain that mother knew best.” Memories of mother, and the things that mother made in the days when youth would be served, deter many a man from uttering those sinister syllables, “eat, drink and be merry for to-morrow we diet.” Chefs page 51 may come and dieticians may go, but Mother goes on for ever. When the digestion dies, memory remains of her poems in pie, her rondels in rissoles, her love-songs in soup, her epics of culinary competence, her preludes in “Oh!” and her symphonies in “Umm-m-m.” The French claim culinary genius, but where did they get their information? From Mother? What are all their fancy dishes but Mother's home-cooking without a home. They stole her thunder to make a big noise, and what is the result. Criminal misrepresentation! Try out their dishes bearing names that sound like the words of a revolutionary hymn, and you will agree that fifty thousand Frenchmen can be wrong. We don't care a continental what they claim; we maintain that their Consomme de Boeuf is only Mother's shin-bone soup without a shin to stand on, that their Marsaillaise Bon-bon is nothing but Mother's Yorkshire pudding with a French accent. Their Pate de Pouf is Mother's rice pudding re-Ducoed and served with face cream, and their Fricasse du Fromage is nothing but Mother's minced cheese without the cheese and without a Mother's care. We lay our heads in our hands and sob.—

“O take away those baubles
Of sugar, air and cream,
We know such things
The waiter brings
Are never what they seem.
The rose, they say, by any name
Perchance would smell as sweet,
But you and I
Expect of pie—
Just something we can eat.
It may be full of vitamins,
Lined up all clean and neat,
But you and I,
Require of pie,
Some gravy paste and meat.
A pie should be a pie,
Says I,
Not pale and dietetic,
Or roofed with some
LinoleUM,
And otherwise synthetic.
When mother cooked we gave no heed
To things like vitamins,
Protein as such
Was Double-Dutch—
We didn't care two pins—
In those Elysian days gone by,
When men were men, and pie was pie,
And we assembled, unafraid,
Before the things that mother made.”

In those fair days, even had we known that there were vitamins in pie, we should have eaten it just the same, and had we found a calorie in the soup we should have just lifted it out and carried on.