What bliss it was to be poor when salvation was Crispy Pancakes

Findus French Bread Pizzas and Crispy Pancakes were the twin frigid columns on which Donald MacInnes' early nutrition was built

(Findus)

Like countless others, I grew up in a one-parent family. As a result – and this is not to say we were existing below or anywhere near the poverty line – there was never a lot of money floating around. Ally this to the fact that I was a fussy little sod when it came to food and you can see why my mum relied so heavily on Findus and Birds Eye frozen products.

Findus French Bread Pizzas and Crispy Pancakes, in particular, were the twin frigid columns on which my early nutrition was built.

Thus I felt a little beaten up emotionally last week when Findus announced that it would no longer be putting out any product under the Crispy Pancakes banner.

To me that smells like they intend to "deli up" that fabulously uncomplicated meaty turnover and market it as some sort of middle-class carnivores' crêpe. Please, no.

To me, Crispy Pancakes – combined with their spiritual life partner Birds Eye Potato Waffles (and perhaps beans) – were and always will be the most perfect of evening meals, from a time when you would ask "What's for tea?" with the same gravitas as you now reserve for "Have we been paid?"

This was never more important than when I lodged with a family in Dundee.

I was just out of college and landed my first job with DC Thomson, legendary publisher of The Beano, Jackie, Commando books and, of course, the unforgettable Sunday Post.

I was the junior editorial assistant on one of the company's teenage magazines and thus was being paid in winks and a handful of sweeties. I therefore had no choice but to get a room with some random family until my finances began looking up (I'm still waiting).

Sadly, it turned out that the mother of my host family was definitely the worst cook ever to draw breath. Just regally inept.

For most of the week, I would sit in my room dreading her squawk up the stairs that dinner was ready. I would trudge down, my heart heavy and my gag reflex getting warmed up for whatever Hogwarts concoction she had scraped off the inside of the cistern.

I would sit there with her family, pushing this oily Dundonian swill around my plate and longing for release so I could go back up to my box room and be homesick – and, well, sick in peace.

Once or twice a month, though, something would happen. Maybe she had seen her fancy man in the park that day and didn't have time to drain off a pot of her stew from the local septic tank, but it didn't matter why. The why went out of the window when I got halfway down the stairs and sensed the sweet salvation in the aroma of Findus Crispy Pancakes and Birds Eye Potato Waffles.

I would have to hide my tears of joy as I vacuumed up the deliciously non-homemade grub in front of me. I can rarely recall food ever meaning more to me or leaving me happier.

If this is what you want to do away with, Findus, I say: shame on you.