ABSTRACT
My dad hid his Everton mints in the glove compartment of his car. My mother her Terry’s chocolate orange slices at the top of his cupboard. We never had desserts or biscuits, and bread, always rye, was reserved for overstuffed Hungarian salami and salad sandwiches dropped in the rubbish bin on the way to my prim and proper English school, lest the other children with their neat white bread banana ones would make fun of me.
