Clean eating is everywhere. Reminding us all how dirty we are.
Of course it makes sense to sack off processed food and eat what nature intended. And I’m full of good intentions… but my willpower wobbles. I swing from banana to five-minute fries in the blink of an eye – the same mouthful, even.
But it has got me reflecting on my mucky-eating past. And the top five offenders my guts will still be cursing me for.
- Friday night takeaways in the 80s
To welcome in the weekend, my sisters and I would take a trip to our local chippy in Cumbria. There, I would order deep fried PINEAPPLE RINGS and chips. Washed down with a beaker of dandelion and burdock. It’s the sort of meal that would get you taken into care now.
- Smashed
From what I can remember, the late Nineties and early Noughties were quite lively. Back then, I developed a love of powder – namely Smash, Beanfeast and butterscotch Angel Delight. Anything that required ripping a packet open with your teeth and, at most, the boiling of a kettle.
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- Poor man’s panini
And I would have been very poor at the time. This involved sticking a processed cheese slice on a thick piece of Mighty White, nuking it in the microwave, slathering it in ketchup then folding it in on itself. Hot, limp, fast, greasy goodness. Pure filth.
- Macaroni pies
While at university in Aberdeen, I dedicated much of my time to the study of this Scottish delicacy. Essentially, it’s a creamy mound of macaroni cheese inside a crisp pastry shell. Disgustingly delicious hot or cold, when it turns into a congealed, carby, gloopy mass. After I’d upped sticks for Brighton, my Scottish boyfriend would fly 600 miles to see me and bring half a dozen in his hand luggage. It was a real love story, me and those pies.
- London cuisine
I’d like to say I cleaned up my act in shiny Canary Wharf, home to whole cafes dedicated to the wheatgrass smoothie. But with my flatmate John, I stood no chance. A man who, in the absence of oil, fried nondescript meat in tequila and whose devotion to rainbow-coloured breakfast cereal was all-consuming. With our combined cooking skills, we had no hope. Luckily for us, we lived three minutes from an immense gastropub, selling huge Mediterranean salads and freshly grilled sardines. Unluckily for us, McDonald’s was closer.
By Kay Harrison – a coeliac attempting to clean up her act