My mum lived next door to her mum when I was young.
Now when was I last young?
What can I remember of my grandma?
Ah! Here are her old recipes,
Written down in ink,
Yes, she was a cook!
I look into my memory,
It’s my third year of life.
I see her, standing on a patch of old worn linoleum,
Soapy suds hide Nanna’s wrists to fingertips –
Dishes washed in the sink, to squeak and sparkle – to shine.
Nanna dries her hands on the floral cotton apron that protects her best house dress.
She migrates to another island of worn flooring,
And, with tea-towel in hand opens the wood-fired oven door.
She rescues something from the cooker,
Lands it – clanking, clashing, clattering – onto the range top,
Then, one by one,
Seemingly hot to the touch,
Slightly browned on top, handful sized white loaves,
Land, in a tea towel lined crockery bowl.
I turn to watch Nanna’s next action, but it is done –
While I was still in awe of my sense’s revelations,
My grandmother has transformed a plain old kitchen table into a feast for the eyes.
Cups on saucers, soon to be filled to the brim with hot tea and a dash of milk.
Scones, butter, and red berry jam,
And cream.
“Devonshire tea for two!” says Nanna
Well blow me down if this old memory should fail to awaken every sense in my whole being.
Were there days, or even seconds, before that time?

For Grandparent’s Day on Sunday 25^th October

Image from Pixabay