Grandmothers

With yesterday’s goosgog harvest, I was transported back to the days when I was the child or even the grandchild. I thought about my mum’s puddings and bizarrely a dish that big Nan used to cook goosgog crumble in. It was a shallow, rectangular, pottery dish in beige with some kind of picture on the bottom. No matter how hard I try I can’t bring that picture into sharp focus. I can picture the kitchen with it’s distinctive smell of bleach, the larder filled with extra bags of sugar because, “I’m not getting caught out like that again!” I can picture Nan in her pinny, her bosom threatening to suffocate in a wonderful hug. However, the actual picture on the bottom of the dish swims in and out of focus. Maybe it’s because it’s covered in goosgog juice and flakes of crumble. Maybe it’s not important.

My other Nan didn’t really bake. I remember her getting the griddle pan out once. She was Welsh and claimed we did scones all wrong. Mostly, I remember swapping my sausages for extra veg with my Aunt, who was (and funnily enough still is) only 7 years older than me, French fancies and milk jelly (or blancmange if you’re not Welsh). She was the Nanny who tried to answer the difficult questions.
“If God made people, who made God?”
“The ancient people made him from matchsticks then they all died out.”
She was very creative when faced with a whybird.

I’m not sure when it happened but at some point in my growing up I decided that I wasn’t that keen on being a mother. It looked like too much hard work and would mean that if you wanted to do it properly you wouldn’t be able to have the glittering career I was obviously destined for. I think I made my decision when I was walking to school with my mum. We were playing the ‘which is the nicest garden/house‘ game.
I pointed to a beautiful big white house with a gravel path and said, “When I grow up, I’m going to live there.”
Then I pointed to the small bungalow next door with beautiful country cottage boarders and perfectly manicured lawn. The lupins were swaying gently in the breeze and I said, “And I’m going to buy that for you, so that you can look after my children.”
The snort that erupted from her nose started the Flores cyclone.
“I’m not looking after your children,” she said, “You can look after your own children! Forget that idea right now!”
For a long while after that I thought that maybe I wouldn’t bother being a mother and that maybe I could just be a grandmother.

I already have a large supply of knitting

Life doesn’t turn out the way you plan. There was no glittering career and I just enjoyed being a mum. However, I would still like to be a grandma one day.

I will be in my element. I can knit, bake, sing nursery rhymes and give them back to disturb someone else’s sleep. I’ll even get myself a dish with a picture on the bottom.