FOOD QUESTION IN ENGLAND.

Press, Volume LIV, Issue 16218, 22 May 1918, Page 7

FOOD QUESTION IN ENGLAND.

HUMOURS OF THE QUEST

(SPECIALLY WRITTEN" FOB "TnE PRESS.' )

(By a New Zealand Girl in England.)

From the civilian point of view there has been no time like the present in this greatest of all wars. Certain discomforts and inconveniences have obtruded themselves. i\e have accepted the amusement tax with quiet resignation, mixed margarine with butter to inake'it last longer, and proceeded to live in our usual roliickuig way. Then by degrees \vb b-'gan to talk and think aud caeam oT looil to tne obsession _of all else. For a while, kmuiy but indiscreet parcels of sugar percolated our way from .New ZeMunu, until one iiwiul uay when the Customs set us all gibbering with, ingiit. Aud thou tuere was no more sugar, but vicious threats on bilious looking oiiicial paper. All over the jaud was tne voice ot Sir Arthur Yapp, talking, pieading, threatening, about voluntary and compulsory rationing. As usual, we left it to some other highly patriotic soul to economise, while if wo could wheedle a little extra tripe from the buteller, so much the better. Long queues each day in the slums were disquieting aud depressing. Sometimes there were mikl riots which ended unhappily for the tradesmen, but created hilarious amusement for the women taking part. Before very queues had become part of tho daily life in tho more select residential districts. Smart suburbia turned out and took up its position on the pavement each day. I fell into line with a thousand other women one day in a meat queue. Believe me, it was a novel experience. Wo were four deep, and brought respectably to heel by friendly constables and tho übiquitous special. Tho long wait was enlivened by intimate dontestie discussions ana revelations. A dog added to the interest by leaving tho butcher s premisos hurriedly with a portion of a steak. An old man fell in a dead faint. A poor woman wavered and fell before the temptation of a mutton chop which apparently had no fixed object lying aimlessly around in tho shop.*Tlns caused us all to think deeply on defaulting army contractors and profiteers No one could find queue waiting dull. It bristles with interest.

In London I have .seen queues waiting at Drury Lane pit doors at 8.30 a.m. for'the afternoon performance, so naturally the Londoner is more efficient, and more patient. By a little judicious management, many people have obtained each week as much as five and six pounds of butter and margarine, while many of us had to toy contentedly with a small portion of mutton dripping. In countless eases where fancy paints a pathetic picture of long lines of waiting, emaciated women, the reality is rather of buccaneering spirits on the ramp for food. Meat has undoubtedly been our hardship. Memory may be forgiven for lingering sentimentally on the recollections of prime Cantei bury. Those were halcyon days! Fortunately for us, certain attentions to the butcher's sick baby as far back as 1915,. havo given U3 some unaccountable privileges, and proves tho tradesman's long memory for good or ill. Thus at odd times and at mystic signs a favoured few were spirited into the darkened, premises, and spirited' away small portions of .perquisites. Like a little band of persecuted pilgrims, we wquld gather round tho chopping block in the dim. light, fearful of attracting the attention of the special constable outside on his beat. For though the special is not so far removed from civilian,, lie knows [human /frailty to a .fine point, and -is well up in the law, and human weaknesses. On these occasions I marvelled at brave women stepping out with a nonchalant air and a calf's head camouflaged For my own part d little liver or half 0% pound of fat sent me singing safely home. Now with the ration cards, these days of thrills are over. Some mammoth mysterious beast supplies us all with a mysterious threecornered cut, the shape of the Y.M.C.A. triangle. In this great free land, you no longer choose your Sunday joint.. I saw one yesterday which was nothing more than an overgrown chop. Obviously the wisest plan is to leave yourself in the hands of the butcher. He knows what is best for you. The contrast of shop-window display is certainly very striking. We all know, having been told by our paternal Government, that there is plenty of food in the country, the cold stores, or the allotments, but we somehow miss the fearful and wonderful window displays of goods. Ten tiny sprats lying listlessly on a marble slab, three sacks of ricei in another window, an ox's windpipe, and a meat chopper, spt you sighing for peaco and plenty. In these days you must tread warily with the tradespeople. Their day has come. The way of tho transgressor is over hard, as many a cantankerous customer is now finding. A very elderly etrg may be the handwriting on the wall. You then proceed hurriedly to your grocer and ingratiate yourself into nis favour before worse befalls you. It is useless to go elsewhere. You creep furtively into a strange shop and the assistant probably shout 9 ''No madam I" at you before you have even passed a remark about the weather. Then it is time to go. There may be a great deal of "No, madam!" going on in your own particular shop, but the correct thing is, to stand fast until yon catch the assistant's eye, and then wait till the crowd melts. You very soon learn. In the baker's shop you are not immune from chastisement. The assistant was really very annoyed with me becauso I had forgotten the wrapping paper for the bread! One cannot be too careful. Feelings and digestions suffer alike in these quaint days. Of war-time cookery dishes the half could never be told. concoctions, messes, and . make-believes, mock this, and something the other. It was even rumoured, we were to be supplied with gas helmets for some of tho dripping; oh sale. After a-spirited sermon in St. Paul's, on the subject of food economy, by the Bishop of London, some of us deeply humiliatea hurried home before the collection, and experimented with the recipe of an epicure. A combined mixture of lard and meat extract, represented to be a magnificent butter substitute. Now for chapped hands this may be excellent, but as a disturber of gastric organs,'l know no equal. So for the present we prefer to jog happily on with our quarter of a pound of margarine per head per week. As "Punch" says, per-haps. Leaving to the more adventurous souls the task of tackling mythical dishes in ration times.