Do you remember the sponge? Soft, so soft, and in our family usually vanilla, and lashings of cream with the occasional smear of jam.
Special occasions - such as the measles, or chicken pox - warranted the special effort of marble cake.
Mumps and tonsillitis were more the ice cream and jelly afflictions.
Generation V - vaccinated - simply doesn't know what it is missing out on.
Now where, you might well wonder, is all this going.
Certainly straight to my hips and waistline - and most recently my alarmingly-developing man boobs.
But what has brought it to my mind is the most recent school fete I attended with assorted grandchildren.
Maybe time is passing me by, and yes, maybe I am getting to that age where I am better at recalling what I did 60 years ago than 60 minutes ago.
Whichever it is, as I wandered through stalls at the fete I was aghast.
My grandkids aren't exactly bush babies, but they don't live in a big city either.
So you kind of expect that sense of CWA to be piled high on the trading tables.
Homemade cakes, pasties, sausage rolls - even the odd plate of fairy bread.
My grandmothers were both avid cooks.
Apart from the staples they both had all these nifty little extras - such as jelly squares rolled in something white which they assured me was this deliciously exotic thing they called Turkish delight.
Or apricot tarts, little warm pastry triangles oozing jam from their own trees and covered with a dollop of scalded cream.
For those of you too young to know what the hell that is (or too old to recall) it is one of my great childhood memories, roaming into the kitchen at the farm and catching grandma (either one) in full flight.
The milk - from the house cow - was poured into a wide and shallow pan with a ceramic thingummy with a spiral in its base thrown in for good measure.
It was brought to a slow boil, as best I can remember, and then switched off.
In a remarkable exhibition of agricultural alchemy, this milk slowly but surely developed a thick layer of yellow cream across the top.
And this is where grandma demonstrated a lifetime of culinary class.
With a few quick twists of her wrist she cut the cream from the edges of the pan, folded it over and over and scooped the lot out.
The only thing missing was a drum roll.
Plopped into a cream dish, with a dash of milk for moisture, we had cream for the cake, the jam and bread, the pudding - and the apricot tarts.
But before I have to start cuffing the corner of my eyes because the wind is making them water, let me get back to where I started.
The school fete.
OK, so there were cakes - large and small - but there was nary a sponge in sight.
There were fancy little sausage rolls, sandwiches, pasties and pies. (But don't let me start on grandma and her hand mincer, anchored to the end of the kitchen table and her cranking away to create her secret pastie recipe.
To go into the pastry she made from scratch.
Damn, what did I tell you about that wind getting into my eyes?
Anyway, the fete.
It was for a good cause but virtually everything, not the whole lot, but so close it didn't matter, was clearly purchased and dropped off.
There were no stickjaw toffees with hundreds and thousands. I guess the health police have banned those.
Closely followed, I guess, by the toffee apples.
It was great to see the kiddies running around, and at the same time so sad to know what they would never know.
Instead of conscription to solve our unemployment, perhaps we could rope each generation into a couple of years of service in the land army.
Where they could do something useful, pick up plenty of skills, and try some real farm food.
But even then I doubt anyone would be allowed to provide my other favouritist memory from grandma's kitchen, brought to the table wrapped in the brown paper she collected and kept in a special drawer.
Fried bread liberally sprinkled with salt.
In this day and age that would probably go down as child abuse.