Some of my earliest food memories are from trips to my grandmothers. Nana in my mum’s case and Grandma for my dad. Both grandads were there but somehow I don’t think either of them would have had anything to do with what was coming out of the kitchen.
Grandma was a big forceful lady, both physically and personality wise.
“Give Grandma a hug” was always boomed out as soon as we arrived. Quickly followed with “Oh haven’t you grown”
To be honest I think I always found her a little bit scary as a child, but when she fed you the whole world changed.
She’d had lots of practice, bringing up four boys, and always seemed to have something ready to serve.
My grandfather was a coal miner and they lived in a house rented from the Coal Board. They used to get deliveries of coal that would be tipped on the pavement, grandad would then have to shovel and wheelbarrow it to the coal shed. Any trip that coincided with a coal delivery was an added bonus as I got to help and also to get quite spectacularly dirty.
Grandma didn’t approve, but “do you want to help then?” from grandad was all the encouragement i needed.
I think grandma had an oven in the kitchen, but the main one was built into the coal fire in the front room. That possibly conjures images of an Aga but it wasn’t as grand as that. What it does mean is that the aroma of roasting meats and potatoes filled the house and you never went to the table anything less than starving.
It wasn’t just the Sunday roasts. I remember sweet and sticky coconut haystacks, rich fruit scones and perfect egg custards with just a hint of nutmeg. To this day any egg custard is compared to grandma’s and is always found wanting.
A visit to Nana’s was different.
It started at the front door with a big kiss and “Hello ducky” in her wonderful Berkshire accent. From the word go you were enveloped in grandmotherly love.
But the biggest difference was at the table. Nana loved to cook and there was always plenty for us but even at a young age i knew she was no Grandma.
I think I once told her about Grandma’s egg custard and on our next visit she proudly produced one that she’d made. One spoonful in I found jam in the middle and all enthusiasm waned . I hope I hid my disappointment but i’m not so sure that i did.
To this day i struggle with rhubarb and blame Nana for that. Grandad had been diagnosed as diabetic and they claimed that doctors had told him that rhubarb was the only sweet thing he could eat. As a result it went into pies, crumbles, cakes and purees . By the end of a stay you were sick of the sight of it.
Two very different grandmothers but lots of good memories.
David in the kitchen. 