Eating porridge with my daughter this morning (me brown sugar; her honey) I was telling her about Ready Brek, and the boy in the advert going to school surrounded by a warm glow. She shushed me: they were talking about porridge on the radio! In fact they were talking about a successor to Ready Brek called Porridge Pot. Someone said it was more like a pudding than a breakfast cereal, and was one of the processed foods adding to the obesity crisis.
Masterchef fetishises fine-dining
Then a foodie guru came on and told us about the pleasures of real porridge. Obviously I was the choir for her preaching. Or was I? When the presenter asked her how it was eaten in her house, her answer dismayed me profoundly. A dash of salt, she said, and a spoon of tahini, and a pinch of cinnamon, and maybe date molasses, and chopped banana. I think another pretentious ingredient was mentioned too. The interviewer cooed with approval. He should have said, ‘You fool! You have just demonstrated why our food culture is so messed up. You are part of the problem, almost as much as the marketers of Porridge Pot.’
I am no cook. But porridge I can make. You add milk to the oats, you stir it, you add more milk. You put it in a bowl and add some sweet topping. That’s it. Admittedly, I sometimes add chopped fruit. It’s surprisingly tasty, and perfectly healthy if you don’t go crazy on the sugar.
To turn this normal thing into an aspirational foodie thing is a mistake. The average person hears it and thinks: I’m not the sort to have a spoon of tahini handy, so I’d better stick with Porridge Pot.
Which brings us to Gregg Wallace. I’ve never liked Masterchef. I only ever catch a few glimpses of this show as I channel-hop, but it’s enough. Masterchef fetishises fine-dining in a way that I find depressing, and slightly scary. It just feels wrong, like porn. The mix of cold technical expertise and bourgeois hedonism gives me the creeps. It feels like the opposite of good culture. In a sense we should take food more seriously, which means taking care not to separate it from the rest of human life.
At least my daughter went to school with a glow that owes nothing to the food marketing industry. But oh dear, maybe I’m just obeying that 80s advert. Toast tomorrow.
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