Readers' favourite photographs, songs and recipes
**Snapshot: My mother and the flying saucer**
In a far-off galaxy – 1973 – my father, a young family man with considerable professional capabilities (and impressive sideburns) was talent-spotted by his employer, Post Office Telephones, as future senior management material and sent on a course.
Henley Management College ran an 11-week residential, total immersion baptism into business leadership course. There were lectures, seminars, team-building exercises, problem-solving sessions, badminton, squash, management-grade dining and a certain amount of ambitious bonhomie after hours in the college bar.
Contact with the outside world during the 11 weeks was frowned upon: there was only one weekend's leave, and college phones were reserved for medical emergencies. The only way for young fathers to communicate with the mothership was to write. Unfortunately for us – as you see – only one of the crew was of reading age, and crucial information must have been lost in transmission.
Many weeks after we had last seen him leave for work, with a suitcase, Dad turned up here in Harlow at my godmother's wedding and took this picture of his much-missed family. My brother looks terrified. I appear concerned at the strange man behind the camera. In fact, if you look closely at my little gloved hand you will see I am sending out some sort of Vulcan distress signal. My mother's rather strained smile from beneath the extra-terrestrial visitation that is her hat says it all: after so many weeks of lone parenting plus all the effort of occasion-dressing two small children, she is more than ready to be beamed up.
That anyone could disappear so completely while only two hours away is almost unthinkable now, even rather quaint, as is the notion that a woman is expected to smile and hold the fort single-handedly in the interests of her husband's career. But back in that other world where a lot of UK households didn't even have a landline, the idea that in the future even children would be using mobile phones to send and receive pictures, and that working dads – and mums – would be able to talk to their families from war zones over the breakfast table, well, that was all as unlikely as a flying saucer.
Eleanor Knight
**Playlist: 'Irish Pat' was a very special man**
*Danny Boy*
"Oh, Danny Boy, the pipes, the pipes are calling / from glen to glen and down the mountainside"
Whenever I hear the song Danny Boy I am back in my childhood in the 50s. My grandad, Charlie, would sing it to me, his beautiful voice full of such emotion that it brought a tear to my young eyes. When I was older, he told me why Danny Boy meant so much to him. He was a wonderful raconteur, and I loved to hear him tell the story of its significance in his life.
When he signed up to fight in the first world war, all the lads in his regiment thought he was Irish as he had a thick unruly mop of auburn hair. They affectionately nicknamed him Irish Pat. He wasn't from anywhere near Ireland but from Bethnal Green in east London, so to play along with the lads and the nickname, he would sing Danny Boy to entertain them.
It was a favourite party piece at family gatherings. Grandad would sing it with eyes closed, lost to the world, his rich, strong voice full of passion and memories of those dreadful war years.
It wasn't until I was an adult with my own teenage sons, that I discovered he had only just turned 16 when he joined up to fight. He lied about his age, had been sent to the trenches, and had seen terrible things that no one of any age should, let alone someone as young as he was.
He was 89 when he died. He only opened his war medals on his 80th birthday at the insistence of the family. He just wasn't interested in them and gave them away to his only grandson, my cousin. Danny Boy was played at his funeral. My mother hadn't thought to warn me about this, so walking into the crematorium to the strains of "our song" I was overcome with emotion and love for him. I sang along quietly in memory of and respect for my granddad. Anne Sharman
**We love to eat: Mum's badger seed goulash**
*Ingredients*
8oz (225g) onions, thinly sliced
2 tbsp vegetable oil
2oz (55g) butter or margarine
2lb (900g) potatoes, peeled and cut in half-inch thick slices
1 level tbsp paprika
Quarter pint water
1 level tbsp flour
2 level tsp caraway seeds
Quarter pint (140ml) sour cream (or tinned cream mixed with 2 tsp vinegar)
A few chives or spring onions chopped
A few hard-boiled eggs, sliced
Soften onions in oil and butter or margarine in a large saucepan. Add potatoes and paprika and stir. Add water and salt. Cover and cook on low for 20 mins. Stir in flour blended with 3-4 tablespoons water and caraway seeds (optional and my tip is to miss them out). Cook for a minute or two. Remove from heat. Stir in sour cream. Transfer to a casserole dish, sprinkle with chives or onion and egg. Serve with vegetables or salad.
In the 1970s, when I was nearly nine, my mum decided that we should all become vegetarians. My grandmother wanted to show love and support for her daughter's moral stand for animals, so gave her an old and worn book called 500 Vegetarian Recipes (shown in the photograph).
Among the 500 recipes that me, my brother and stepdad had the pleasure of being guinea pigs for, there was potato goulash. Yum! This was a quick, easy and cost-effective dinner for my busy mum to prepare, which became a regular on the weekly menu.
It was absolutely delicious. Sometimes we became so bloated after the irresistible third helping, we could hardly move. However, left on the side of all our plates, except Mum's, were what we came to call "badger seeds". These were the caraway seeds, which none of us liked. If one of the little striped monsters managed to hide among the onions or become semi submerged in a potato, it could sneak on to a forkful of goulash. Yuck! It might have been because Mum was adding two tablespoons of caraway seeds instead of two teaspoons. This is a very recent confession of hers.
We loved the potato and onion part and the smell of it cooking. But we would say, "No badger seeds this time, Mum, please." She always replied, "No, I won't, I promise." And we believed her every single time. As we were to discover, Mum never likes to be wasteful and there was a whole, extra large, value-sized packet of badger seeds to use up. She merrily continued sprinkling a few of them into her potato goulash for what seemed like years.
The cookbook barely holds together these days – and we're no longer vegetarians. But when Mum gets it out, mainly to remember the potato goulash recipe, she'll casually suggest, "We could be vegetarians again."
Nowadays, at family dos, Mum's potato goulash is much requested. It brings back happy memories. Thankfully, we no longer have to endure the badger seeds. She hasn't bought another packet since the last one was used up, probably circa 1980. Jane Cull
*We'd love to hear your stories
*
We will pay £25 for every Letter to, Playlist, Snapshot or We love to eat we publish. Write to Family Life, The Guardian, Kings Place, 90 York Way, London N1 9GU or email family@guardian.co.uk. Please include your address and phone number Reported by guardian.co.uk 10 hours ago.
**Snapshot: My mother and the flying saucer**
In a far-off galaxy – 1973 – my father, a young family man with considerable professional capabilities (and impressive sideburns) was talent-spotted by his employer, Post Office Telephones, as future senior management material and sent on a course.
Henley Management College ran an 11-week residential, total immersion baptism into business leadership course. There were lectures, seminars, team-building exercises, problem-solving sessions, badminton, squash, management-grade dining and a certain amount of ambitious bonhomie after hours in the college bar.
Contact with the outside world during the 11 weeks was frowned upon: there was only one weekend's leave, and college phones were reserved for medical emergencies. The only way for young fathers to communicate with the mothership was to write. Unfortunately for us – as you see – only one of the crew was of reading age, and crucial information must have been lost in transmission.
Many weeks after we had last seen him leave for work, with a suitcase, Dad turned up here in Harlow at my godmother's wedding and took this picture of his much-missed family. My brother looks terrified. I appear concerned at the strange man behind the camera. In fact, if you look closely at my little gloved hand you will see I am sending out some sort of Vulcan distress signal. My mother's rather strained smile from beneath the extra-terrestrial visitation that is her hat says it all: after so many weeks of lone parenting plus all the effort of occasion-dressing two small children, she is more than ready to be beamed up.
That anyone could disappear so completely while only two hours away is almost unthinkable now, even rather quaint, as is the notion that a woman is expected to smile and hold the fort single-handedly in the interests of her husband's career. But back in that other world where a lot of UK households didn't even have a landline, the idea that in the future even children would be using mobile phones to send and receive pictures, and that working dads – and mums – would be able to talk to their families from war zones over the breakfast table, well, that was all as unlikely as a flying saucer.
Eleanor Knight
**Playlist: 'Irish Pat' was a very special man**
*Danny Boy*
"Oh, Danny Boy, the pipes, the pipes are calling / from glen to glen and down the mountainside"
Whenever I hear the song Danny Boy I am back in my childhood in the 50s. My grandad, Charlie, would sing it to me, his beautiful voice full of such emotion that it brought a tear to my young eyes. When I was older, he told me why Danny Boy meant so much to him. He was a wonderful raconteur, and I loved to hear him tell the story of its significance in his life.
When he signed up to fight in the first world war, all the lads in his regiment thought he was Irish as he had a thick unruly mop of auburn hair. They affectionately nicknamed him Irish Pat. He wasn't from anywhere near Ireland but from Bethnal Green in east London, so to play along with the lads and the nickname, he would sing Danny Boy to entertain them.
It was a favourite party piece at family gatherings. Grandad would sing it with eyes closed, lost to the world, his rich, strong voice full of passion and memories of those dreadful war years.
It wasn't until I was an adult with my own teenage sons, that I discovered he had only just turned 16 when he joined up to fight. He lied about his age, had been sent to the trenches, and had seen terrible things that no one of any age should, let alone someone as young as he was.
He was 89 when he died. He only opened his war medals on his 80th birthday at the insistence of the family. He just wasn't interested in them and gave them away to his only grandson, my cousin. Danny Boy was played at his funeral. My mother hadn't thought to warn me about this, so walking into the crematorium to the strains of "our song" I was overcome with emotion and love for him. I sang along quietly in memory of and respect for my granddad. Anne Sharman
**We love to eat: Mum's badger seed goulash**
*Ingredients*
8oz (225g) onions, thinly sliced
2 tbsp vegetable oil
2oz (55g) butter or margarine
2lb (900g) potatoes, peeled and cut in half-inch thick slices
1 level tbsp paprika
Quarter pint water
1 level tbsp flour
2 level tsp caraway seeds
Quarter pint (140ml) sour cream (or tinned cream mixed with 2 tsp vinegar)
A few chives or spring onions chopped
A few hard-boiled eggs, sliced
Soften onions in oil and butter or margarine in a large saucepan. Add potatoes and paprika and stir. Add water and salt. Cover and cook on low for 20 mins. Stir in flour blended with 3-4 tablespoons water and caraway seeds (optional and my tip is to miss them out). Cook for a minute or two. Remove from heat. Stir in sour cream. Transfer to a casserole dish, sprinkle with chives or onion and egg. Serve with vegetables or salad.
In the 1970s, when I was nearly nine, my mum decided that we should all become vegetarians. My grandmother wanted to show love and support for her daughter's moral stand for animals, so gave her an old and worn book called 500 Vegetarian Recipes (shown in the photograph).
Among the 500 recipes that me, my brother and stepdad had the pleasure of being guinea pigs for, there was potato goulash. Yum! This was a quick, easy and cost-effective dinner for my busy mum to prepare, which became a regular on the weekly menu.
It was absolutely delicious. Sometimes we became so bloated after the irresistible third helping, we could hardly move. However, left on the side of all our plates, except Mum's, were what we came to call "badger seeds". These were the caraway seeds, which none of us liked. If one of the little striped monsters managed to hide among the onions or become semi submerged in a potato, it could sneak on to a forkful of goulash. Yuck! It might have been because Mum was adding two tablespoons of caraway seeds instead of two teaspoons. This is a very recent confession of hers.
We loved the potato and onion part and the smell of it cooking. But we would say, "No badger seeds this time, Mum, please." She always replied, "No, I won't, I promise." And we believed her every single time. As we were to discover, Mum never likes to be wasteful and there was a whole, extra large, value-sized packet of badger seeds to use up. She merrily continued sprinkling a few of them into her potato goulash for what seemed like years.
The cookbook barely holds together these days – and we're no longer vegetarians. But when Mum gets it out, mainly to remember the potato goulash recipe, she'll casually suggest, "We could be vegetarians again."
Nowadays, at family dos, Mum's potato goulash is much requested. It brings back happy memories. Thankfully, we no longer have to endure the badger seeds. She hasn't bought another packet since the last one was used up, probably circa 1980. Jane Cull
*We'd love to hear your stories
*
We will pay £25 for every Letter to, Playlist, Snapshot or We love to eat we publish. Write to Family Life, The Guardian, Kings Place, 90 York Way, London N1 9GU or email family@guardian.co.uk. Please include your address and phone number Reported by guardian.co.uk 10 hours ago.