Monkey nuts

In the good old days my parents were amazing at keeping us all fed and clothed, even when my father's salary was not very high and they had six children. Shops were a bit different in these days and so were drinks and snacks. Our lemonade was most of the times tap water, but on Saturday evening my eldest sister and me sometimes got a treat: we would have a bit of syrup topped up with water.

In these days chips and other snacks did not exist. If we would become peckish, there would be a slice of bread. Saturday evenings definitely were different. We would have that special drink and with a bit of luck this would become even more enjoyable. My mother would put a newspaper on the dining table and put a load of monkey nuts, like we called them on the table. The monkey nuts you would have to crack open to get to the peanuts, the shells would be thrown on the newspaper. Afterwards the newspaper and the shells would be thrown in the coal stove to be burned.

My mother died last year - not unexpectedly - aged 94, but even then, she is missed.
Last week I was shopping in our supermarket and saw a bag of monkey nuts. That name was even on the bag. So I could not resist and bought a bag. One evening I wanted to try them and they were very disappointing. My wife had a laugh: "These are raw, not roasted. You got the wrong bag."
We noticed that the birds love these nuts when you mash them, so they will be eaten anyway.

And the other day I bought a bag of roasted monkey nuts. The right stuff! So I now only have to wait for a suitable Saturday evening. I have the nuts, I have a newspaper. There will be a difference: I will use a bowl for the nuts. Maybe I will read the newspaper while eating the nuts and think of my mother.
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