Breakfasts long gone by

THE Black Russians in the tomato patch are coming along nicely.

We had the pleasure of trying them the other day – and very excellent they were too, just the kind of flavour I remember from when I was nowt but a nipper.

My father used to grow his own tomatoes of course – most working men did in those days in our little town in darkest, industrtrial Lancashire.

And we were lucky to live on a corner terrace of two-up, two-down houses, and so our back garden was considerably larger than most of the others adjoining us.

I remember one of the meals my father used to make for himself and for me was fried breakfast; consisting of crispy rashers of bacon bought from the grocers across the road from us, and sliced to our exact requirements.

Eggs spitting in fat – no nonsense about using oil in those days – and my dad’s freshly picked tomatoes sizzling in the pan with a piece of bread.

Oh yes, I can hear those breakfasts now!

They were a real treat once in a while; my mother never approved of fried breakfast for some reason, so my father and I used to behave like a pair of conspirators behind her back.

Above all, though, were the wonderful flavours of bacon, eggs and fried tomatoes – just the sort of flavour my Black Russians have.

Not fried of course in these more health-conscious days – baked, rather, but still just as delicious!