﻿
 
There are none now living who can remember what it was like before. It sounds absurd to us, like an unbelievable, unachievable utopia that, (apparently) it used to be that quite a lot of people actually 


Not only that, but it was food that came 

Or from trees, or from animals. To us, that seems wildly Real and Unreal at the same time. 

Sometimes, the Food was all minced up and unrecognisable in packets and jars, which set the stage for the Horse Meat Scandal of 2013. Dad enjoyed telling me about that one. People were outraged that they got horse meat insead of cow meat. Today, it's amazing to us that 

Other times, supposedly quite often, people bought fresh ingredients for themselves and cooked them. At home! These were just ordinary people, you understand. Not royalty. Not world leaders, or fabulously wealthy CEOS or bankers.

Take a moment to allow that to sink in. These were regular four or five person families. They didn't have special papers, or permits. They didn't need to have an ID card and use it to get this Real Food.  They just went into a shop, and took it off the shelf. They handed over quite a small amount of money (by today's standards certainly) and then they just... went home.

There were no armed guards ringed around these Food Shops. The Food wasn't transported with a convoy of armoured vehicles with heavily armed hired soldiers. 

They just popped a couple of bags in the back of their (horribly un-eco-friendly) car and tootled off home. They listened to pop music on the radio, instead of drones flying overhead. They wound their window down if it was a nice day, and waved cheery thank yous to other drivers, who probably also had some of that Real Food in their cars as well.

None of them went to a secret bunker, where a rare team of specialty chefs waited.

I know all this because my father told me about it, and my father was a truthful man.

Every morning, when he pressed the Eco-Byte(TM) button in the kitchen that dispensed our portions of breakfast, he described what his parents had made for him. 

One morning he told me all about the delights of pancakes and syrup. Another, it was bacon rolls. Eggs benedict. Porridge with cream and brown sugar. Kippers! Toasted crumpets, fresh and hot, so the butter melted right into them, and then drizzled with plenty of honey. 

And, in many households, a large bowl in the middle of the table, overflowing with apples, bananas, satsumas, and fat, juicy grapes.

"Some mornings it was just a bit of cereal," he explained. "Or toast. If we didn't have as much time."



?! Thoughts of all that fresh, cold, creamy milk splashed over sweet and crunchy nuggets sounded like heaven to me. And toast! Golden, crispy, buttery...

Some of the kids at school thought it was gross, how people used to eat, where milk and eggs came from, but it never sounded disgusting to me. Not the way my dad told it.

"Weeell..." he said one day, after I shared with him what my school mates thought of "dirty cow juice". "Some folks did think there was too much antibiotics and the like, and the animals weren't treated right... And maybe there's something to that after all." He rubbed a hand over his stubbly jaw. "But dirty just because of where it comes from? No, Jackie, it wasn't. Or, if it was, it was good dirt, do you see? A peck and a spot, lass. A peck and a spot."

Dinner was the same. Both lights above the dispenser would go green. He pressed the button, first to fill my standard issue bowl, then my brother Larry's, then his own. He'd bring them to the scrubbed table, and describe roast beef and Yorkshire puddings, or chicken curry and rice. Baked potatoes, fluffy and hot and drowning in butter. Fish pie. Steak! Pizza! 

His descriptions made the lumpy gruel I had to eat seem even more revolting, and yet somehow, more bearable, at the same time.

Oh, my mouth watered! I listened so intently and imagined it so vividly, it was almost like I could taste these wondrous things for myself. As if the homogenous gloop I spooned into my mouth became fibrous or crunchy or creamy, and full of flavour.

And there was more! Snacks! Birthday cake! Fresh carrot dipped in hummus. Popcorn, buttery and salty, eaten by the handful, while watching a movie. Delightfully made chocolates with caramel centres. Entire shops dedicated, apparently, to giving children cavities and diabetes: rows upon rows of shiny, colourful wrappers, imploring the little ones to gobble down the sugary contents.

I don't know how to describe how commonplace Food was back then. People had so much of it that 

 of Food because it had yesterday's date on it. Or it was too misshapen and muddy to ever make it off the shop shelves.

People made 

 out of it!

Folks stumbling home drunk at 2am could easily find someone to sell them a burger, lousy with gherkins and relish, for next to no money at all. Or else pitta bread crammed with spicy meat, crunchy salad, and lashings of garlic mayonnaise. Fries coated with a gloopy topping of melted cheese or shiny red tomato sauce. There were establishments dedicated to these particular sales.

You might think him a cruel man, my father, to share such memories. After all, this was a time that was gone forever. It couldn't be recaptured. But you see, he didn't believe that. He thought we could do it! He thought we would nurture the Earth back to her fruitful state. He thought we could adjust our farming practises and our consumption.

"The only way is up, Jackie," he'd say.

He worked every hour he was awake to save enough credit that I could go to university. We hatched a plan, maybe one he'd been gestating since Mother died, or earlier still, when I was born. I was to become a biotech engineer, and revolutionise the Food industry. Before it was too late. Before the joy of Food passed out of collective human consciousness for good.  

I remembered how the kids at school had been disgusted by "dirty cow juice" and I worked just as hard as he did.

We were working on the gigantification of plants. Let's say, you could grow a very large plant quickly using a relatively small patch of land. This would be wonderful, wouldn't it? And as any middle schoder in my father's day knew, the best plants for experimenting with were beans. 

We hoped to eventually replicate our findings with other plants, but before we could do it, the Government shut us down. They took my prototypes and most of my research, and they took the fire out of my father.

When the next Shortage happened, he simply shrivelled away.

"Come on, Dad," I said bracingly. "You can't live off the memory of lasagne and lamb's lettuce!" I begged him to eat, but he had no interest. He never actually said, "We failed, Jackie, love," but I saw it in his eyes.

At the end there was nothing of him left. He pointed, barely able to utter a single word, his voice the ghost of a whisper.

"Yes, Dad," I said, holding back tears. "Up. I know. The only way."

I wanted to beg him to stay with me, and sustain me with his stories, but he was an old man, and tired, and he was ready to go. Who was I to demand that? Anyway, I knew his stories couldn't do what I wanted them to, because they were a dream, and no one got fat dreaming of pasta. Only hard work would do it.

Before he was cold, I headed down under the house to the makeshift lab we'd built, and took one of the embryos from the freezer.

Before the week was out, I was determined to have a bowl of cereal for breakfast.

Larry had other plans. He was rather fond, I'm afraid, of synthetic alcohol. Revolting stuff. Tastes foul, works fast, and always gives you a spiteful hangover.

In his drunken state, he thought that my gene-altered, accelerated growth cow could fetch a tidy price on the black market. He stole Daisy without consulting me, and that should have made me angry... But what he managed to get for her was miles better than money.

I don't know how he did it, but he managed to bring back several of my original prototype beans. I could have kissed him! Instead, I joined Larry in a shot or two of that awful synthetic booze to celebrate.

From now on, I might call it Stupid Juice, or, The Tears of People With Terrible Ideas.

It was my turn to do something ridiculous, which seemed logical at the time... and, as luck would have it, actually would turn out pretty well.

I became paranoid the Government  would steal my beans. Again. I decided to hide them. Where would people be sure to 

I finished the task by moonlight and staggered to bed, a vicious headache already sprouting in my temples.

Unsurprisingly, I slept late. Larry woke me, bursting in with great excitement, and a large purple chicken. I opened my eyes reluctantly, and as the room slid into focus and my senses kicked into gear, I remembered I'd passed out the night before without washing my hands.

Larry didn't care about that. He dragged me outside to witness the marvel I'd wrought behind our house.

Sprouting out of Daisy's dungheap was the most enormous  plant I'd ever seen. I'd never seen so much green in one place. I tilted my head back until my neck hurt, but I couldn't see the top.

"You will not believe what's up there!" Larry said, also gazing upward,  his eyes gleaming, and the chicken clucking under one arm.

"You've climbed it?" I bit the question more sharply than I meant to. I blame the hangover.

He looked at me again, something manic in his face.

"A spaceship!" he said. "Massive!" he shoved the bird at me so he could stretch both his arms wide. His mouth stretched, too, as if trying to keep up. "They've got all your research up there, you know, and more besides. Probably enough knowledge to fulfill dad's dream and feed everyone on Earth twice over."

As if to add emphasis to his words, Violet laid ten eggs in quick succession all over my feet, without even breaking a sweat.

Long story short, we harvested as many beans as we could, and distributed them to anyone who looked cross at the mention of the Government, or the prospect of another Shortage. We've started a full scale rebellion, which has now been going on several months.

The Government is trying to starve us out. It's not really working, but we are all getting sick of beans.

The Only Way is Up

Tuesday 4th February 2025, Story #401

﻿
 
There are none now living who can remember what it was like before. It sounds absurd to us, like an unbelievable, unachievable utopia that, (apparently) it used to be that quite a lot of people actually had enough to eat.



The Only Way is Up

Tuesday 4th February 2025, Story #401

About the Creator

L.C. Schäfer

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The Fridge That Grew Legs

The Only Way is Up

Tuesday 4th February 2025, Story #401

About the Creator

L.C. Schäfer

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Keep reading

The Fridge That Grew Legs

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