In my grandparents’ 2-up, 2-down house, there was a fridge. One of those kind-of-yellow-and-definitely-not-white fridges that had a brown handle with a silver trim, and a hum that would make the dominoes trophies vibrate in the cupboard.

This fridge sat in front of a curtain that marked the top of worn cellar stairs – the sort you needed to put some shoes and a light on to go down. ‘Nightmare stairs’ as my Uncle Willy found out one Christmas when he played magician for us children. He’d shut the curtain in an attempt to make himself disappear.

And disappear he did.

Alas, any illusion of magic was spoilt by his anguished cries as he crashed down those Halifax cellar stairs.

The fridge looked on, unmoved, apart from the constant shiver of electricity quivering through its guts.

But this isn’t a story about Uncle Willy. This is an essay about Grandma Rita’s fridge and the comfort, safety and indulgence that the contents of its brown-handled Electrolux tummy represent. It saw so much, it held such unrivalled treasures and it fostered my love for ‘old people’ food.

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This year, throughout various tiers of 2 lockdowns, a new baby, a period of school-wide self-isolation and general limited excitement, the supermarket has been my only playground for new experiences. And mid-pandemic Aldi is the superduperstore of supermarkets – what other short trip can reward you with both a pint of milk and a wetsuit?

I digress.

Like many people in similar circumstances I’ve turned to cooking and eating to find solace. But unlike most, I haven’t found it in ‘street food’ and pulses and cupcakes and fusion and all that new-fangled fodder that’s permissible by our middle-class, boujee standards.

Comfort, for me, is entrenched in the items from Jack Fulton’s (the ‘thinking man’s Iceland’).

Reassurance, for me, is found in the stodgy beige of Martin’s the bakers.

Joy, for me, is excavating to the deepest, darkest part of the cupboard where the ‘bug out’ tins live.

While everyone else has been banging on about veg boxes, comparing sourdough starters and posting photos of stomach-churning whipped coffee, I’ve been retreating. I’ve been yearning to rewind to the safety of childhood and sit in the Pride of Whitby. Let me taste once more those bland fish and chips with a flop of white, sliced bread atop a green and gold-edged place mat that depicts a countryside scene.

In 2020, I’ve realised I was never happier than watching Grandad Eric fill fondant fancy frogs with pink creme pat in his bakery, and hand raising Yorkshire stand pies. Or in the back room at Grandma Rita’s, steadily chewing salmon spread sandwiches on Milkroll to the hum of the yellow-and-definitely-not-white fridge.

I’ve been harking back fondly to a time when a glut of food with such questionable nutritional value sat so proudly in the gut of that fridge. The glory days! That same retro collection will probably soon be kept behind the grey curtains in the offy where the ciggies are.

“Got any ID on you, love?” will be a way of vetting whether a potential glutton is old enough to appreciate its existence, as well as understand the extreme disregard for their health.

I’m old enough. I’m aware and I’d always take that chance.

Gimme all that salmon spread in its impossibly tiny jar. Remember how it would start to harden on the bread once it was exposed to air? It ended up like grout. You could probably tile your bathroom with it because I doubt there was any fish in it.

And those tinned burgers. Have you ever opened a tin of these? They’re red. Bright red. But they’re also a quid so who’s winning?

What about Angel Delight? Simply horrible. But I’d stand by it and I’d shovel it in given half the chance.

Findus Crispy pancakes were reserved for when you had a friend over. We’d burn our tongues, then get the wrestling figures out.

When I went off to uni, Mother Tyas told me that tinned fish was a very cheap and healthy thing to eat. She didn’t mean tuna, she was talking about the stuff in the tins that can’t have been redesigned since the war. To this day I have no issue cracking open a tin, mashing the fish corpses into mush and plonking it on toast. Delightful.

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For many good reasons we often malign the past. But not everything should be forgotten. Long live the food of Hi-di-Hi. Allo Allo. Dad’s Army. The Last of the Summer Wine. Waiting for God.

As we’ve battled through an onslaught of uncomfortability this year, I’ve realised ‘old people’ food is my greatest comfort. In 2020, I thought a lot about the fridge that harboured great treasures during simpler, more comfortable times.