The whirring food mixer is noisy, so they shut the kitchen
door while they work, just Nana and Mya.
My daughter looks at me in away that tells me that no one else is invited, including me.

With left over pastry, jam tarts are made. Making best use of the pastry to make as many
tarts as you can. I decorate them with thick
swirls and plaits, that always taste slightly raw when cooked, compared to the
thin, crisp bases.
Mam's brown bread. Taking it out of the oven and knocking on its base - a hollow sound indicating that it was ready. A slatter of butter and jam - what more would you want ?
The smell of baking is wafting from the oven now. I can barely wait to taste a bun, fresh from
the oven. The wash up begins. It seems like every utensil in the kitchen
has been used. The residue of the now
watery bun mixture slides down the sink.
I chitter chatter with stories of school and adventures, exaggerating to impress my Mam. This sacred space, precious mother and daughter time, created by a closed kitchen door and a food mixer working on overdrive. Occasionally we are interrupted, one of my brothers reporting on an incident in the sitting room, before running off again. I can hear a wrestling match on TV. Granny Russell, head down, working at her Singer sewing machine.
Later my mother remarks that she thought that she had made five
apple tarts, but can only see four on top of the freezer, where she left them
to cool. A few days later, a neighbour arrives with a
clean, empty dish. He was in our house
that Saturday, washing his hands after helping my father down the yard. He spotted the apple tarts cooling and took it upon himself to take one home with him. ‘It was
lovely Kay. God bless your hands.’
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