Things I Learned from Grandpa Billy
Grandpa Billy made the best satay sauce you’d ever taste in your life. True enough, there wasn’t much satay sauce to be found in the Forth Valley area in the 1970s, but his was the best. That’s what I’m told anyway. He died when I was two, and he was sixty-three.
I have heard many stories about my grandpa throughout my life. I wish I could say that it felt like I knew him. I know of him. I know he was admired and loved; he was affectionate and ambitious; he was content with not a lot; his family and his faith were not only the glue that held his life together, but also the very stone upon which it was built. I hear he could cook for Scotland too. The stories bring me warmth and peace. They help me to paint an image of this man who was so special, but they can’t make me know him. In many ways, they just make me feel even further away from that notion. The twinkle in my mum’s eyes, the softness in her voice, the velvety affection in the words she uses to describe him belong only to a person who loved and was loved by this man. Hearing it reminds me that words are not the same as feelings, and memories and stories are not the same as experiences.
Food has always been a fascination for me, and I began to love to cook in my late teens. During this strange lockdown era we are now finding ourselves in, I have found myself back at home with my parents, having just finished university and with very little to do. Food has been my refuge. Cooking a good meal can bring some brightness and some texture into a day that has been made flat and dark by Covid-19. More than that, cooking has made me feel like I still have something to offer the world, despite not being able to go anywhere. My mum is a doctor, and my dad is a college lecturer, so they’ve been busy, to say the least. When I cook, I am able to bring some joy to my parents too, through a satisfyingly spicy curry or a rich, indulgent pasta dish.
My dad’s favourite of all the meals I make is my peanut and veggie stir fried rice. Each time I serve up this sweet, savoury, slightly spicy, and colourful dish, my parents say something along the lines of “Grandpa Billy would have wanted the recipe off of you for this one.” The man who made the best satay sauce in the Forth Valley area would have wanted my recipe. Now that’s a compliment.
Grandpa Billy’s famous satay sauce recipe unfortunately died with him. Legend has it that when family members sat around him as he lay on his deathbed, they asked him for the recipe and he simply responded “…never.” I always imagine he had a slight grin on his face at this moment, and it makes me smile too. He was a man who took such pride in his cooking, and he could only ever share his food if he were the chef.
This was a man who deeply appreciated food in a way that many people will never understand. He grew up in South Uist, a remote Scottish Island. It is a beautiful and harsh place. He was the youngest of seven children. He knew what real hunger felt like. My mum used to always tell me about how Grandpa Billy and his six siblings would venture from their wee croft, over the machair, and onto the white sands of the beaches of South Uist to scavenge for food. They would eat cockles straight from their shells as their feet paddled through the bitingly cold waters, and their skin prickled from the sand and rain that whipped through the air. I imagine him there, a tiny child, fighting against the wind and the waves in this stunningly cruel landscape for something as simple as dinner.
When someone has felt such painful hunger, the meaning of food is deepened. Every meal is served with a side of complete, indefinite gratitude for the simple fact of its existence. So, when he cooked, it wasn’t a hobby. It wasn’t to satisfy hunger. It made him proud, but it was much more than that. It was an act of love. His cooking was filled with the warmth and kindness his childhood had not given him but that he was so willing to give to others.
Grandpa Billy left his world in the Scottish Islands to seek a better life, as so many did. He joined the merchant navy and travelled the world. He was lonely, but he had a pen pal named Catherine, who later became his wife. They had five children together, and at the very heart of that household was Jesus Christ, family, and excellent food. His travels had given him as much wisdom as they had given him a taste for exceptional flavour combinations. All he ever wanted to do was share that with his family.
I only have one memory of him. I can’t really tell whether it is a real memory, or one I have invented myself from the stories I’ve heard: I am sitting at a table, my little legs swinging from the chair, and Grandpa Billy is putting a bowl of hot, gorgeous smelling soup in front of me, and there is a large red pot in the background. It makes me laugh to realise that his face is not in the memory, but his food is.
It probably seems like a strange thing to admit, but food, and my love for it, has helped me to know my Grandpa in a way, when life did not give me that privilege. I might have made up the memory, I don’t know. But it feels like food is something that connects me to him. I practically force my boyfriend to come over to my flat multiple times every week so that I can feed him something I’ve made. When I go abroad and experience new and delicious foods, I am itching to return home to see how I can recreate and share them. I have put insurmountable energy into making each meal special during lockdown, so that my parents have something to look forward to. Making food is, for me, an act of love, just like it was for him. I am so grateful to share that with him without also having had to suffer in the way he did. I am grateful that there is at least a part of him that I know now.
If he were alive today, I know we’d love this connection. I know he’d be coming over for dinner at mine, and we’d both bring a dish or two. We would listen to country music, sit at the table, and laugh together. We’d love to share our food with one another and with everyone else in the family. We’d secretly be competing against each other, fighting for the crown of best cook. He would win.
Peanut and Veggie Stir Fried Rice
Serves 3 large portions
As mentioned, this has been my dad’s favourite lockdown dinner I’ve made, so I thought it would be nice to share the recipe. It is so satisfying and really easy to make- the perfect lockdown dinner.
Ingredients
300g brown rice;
3 tbsp sesame oil;
2 cloves garlic, finely chopped, crushed, or grated;
Thumb sized piece of ginger, grated;
A pinch of crushed chillies;
1 red pepper;
Half a head of broccoli, plus the stalk;
5 tbsp soy sauce;
1 ½ tbsp peanut butter;
2 tbsp honey;
One tin of black beans, drained and rinsed;
A few good handful of frozen peas;
A handful of chopped spring onions and fresh coriander (to serve).
Directions
Put the brown rice on to cook according to the packet instructions. It usually takes about 25-30 minutes to cook, which gives you plenty of time to get on with the veggies.
Heat the sesame oil in a large pan on a medium-high heat. Add the ginger, garlic and chillies and sauté for a minute or two, just so you can smell the lovely smells and release some flavour. Chop the red pepper and the broccoli into bite sized pieces and add to the frying pan, stir frying for a few minutes.
Add 2 tbsp of the soy sauce, 1 tbsp honey, and 1 heaped tbsp peanut butter. Add a little splash of water to loosen the sauce a little and stir. Add the black beans, and turn the heat to low.
When the rice is almost ready, add the frozen peas to the veggies and just give them a stir until they defrost. Once the rice is ready, drain it before adding it to the pan. Give everything a good stir so that it all mixes in. Add the remaining soy sauce, peanut butter and honey, and give it another good stir.
Serve with some chopped spring onions and fresh coriander. You can also add a little more soy sauce if you fancy it – I know I always do!
Anna Steen is a trainee solicitor and recent Law graduate from the University of Edinburgh. You can read more of her food writing at Steen’s Beans.