I was searching for my identity in a bowl of scouse, and looking in the wrong place

It's way, way past midnight. My sister Vicki and I are standing on the landing outside her bathroom giggling uncontrollably, clutching the wall and each other for support. 

“And then he said... he said...” 

The sentence doesn't stand a chance of getting completed; tears of laughter are rolling down our faces. Somehow we both make it safely to bed, more or less, probably with the help of our partners but maybe not. Who remembers? Who cares?

This is a pretty typical conclusion to most evenings my sister and I spend together since we were both little girls, way, way before 'grown-up' behaviour was A Thing and our annoying-behaviour wheels were oiled by white wine spritzers. But tonight’s a little bit different. Tonight, I’ve been hosting The Ultimate Liverpudlian Dinner Party at Vicki’s house. 

First, some context. I’m from Liverpool — Liverpool 8, specifically — and my family still live there. But I left for Bath via London and Clevedon (near Bristol) over 30 years ago. I come back on a very regular basis — but am I as Scouse as I once was, after so long away? I’m an enthusiastic restaurant reviewer, so most things translate into food for me. So, somewhere along the way, “am I still Scouse?” became “can I cook scouse?” 

I planned the menu largely around the iconic Liverpool dish introduced to the city by Baltic/Scandi sailors in the 18^th century — a dish that became so ingrained in our cultural heritage that we're still called Scousers today. 

People who wax lyrical about their family dinners  — sorry, teas — gone by make a bowl of scouse sound like security, comfort, memories on a plate: a taste of home. But I don’t share those memories — I've only ever eaten scouse once. Vicki and I were raised on a diet of largely vegetarian-meets-wholefood-meets-random food; my mum never cooked a roast dinner, and fish fingers, chips and peas sounded exotic. 

But what if I could reverse-engineer a childhood raised on scouse? Because suddenly, I was nostalgic for the sort of food I’d never had much of in the first place. Perhaps scouse could be to me what madeleines were to Proust: a portal to a Liverpool that doesn’t exist any more. 

If you were a tourist visiting Liverpool today you might opt for a bowl of scouse from a small café with a gingham tablecloth (Maggie May’s on Bold Street would be a shout). Your Little Guide to Liverpool might tell you this is the authentic local experience, a symbol of Liverpool’s heritage on all the lists, Penny Lane in a bowl. 

I may no longer live in Liverpool, but I’m not divorced enough from the city to think scouse is what most people here default to nowadays. When you browse the menus in an average restaurant, disco cauliflower, halloumi fries and chaat bombs top the charts. And why make scouse at home when Hello Fresh takes ten minutes? 

But today, we’re doing it properly.