In my grandmother’s kitchen, the division of labour was always clear as day: she was master of all things baked, while Granddad took charge of any other cookery.
As if Id let him waste that culinary school diploma of his, shed say with a mock sternness, sliding a tray of biscuits into her old range. Her domain was cakes, strudels, open tarts, and of course, her legendary biscuits. When I was a child, visiting grandmother was a treat for this one reason: Id head straight for the large tin on the pantry shelf, always filled to the brim with her crumbly shortbread. The delicious, buttery sweetness wafting from that tin held all the temptations of my childhood no force in the world could keep me from devouring at least half its contents.
Granddad, however, made the sort of soups Ive never tasted since. Hearty, rich, wafting with warmth. At home, Mum had long given up on getting me to touch soup; bless her, I loved her dearly, but her cooking well, lets just say it was for the brave. Although, my father the gentlest soul would eat anything she prepared, making a feast of the simplest fare.
Lucy, this is so delicious, I might swallow the spoon! Dad would exclaim, looking at Mum with adoring eyes, spoon poised theatrically.
Back then, I suspected the only thing he was eager to swallow was the spoon itself anything to bypass the taste. He hardly seemed to chew; just a gulp, as if to get it all down faster.
But those were childish thoughts, foolish really, because just a street away lived my grandparents, where Id have lunch and supper. Breakfast I had at home, especially as not even Mum could mishandle a slice of bread with butter and jam.
Granddad, how come you never became a chef? I once asked, barely pausing between spoonfuls of his thick stew.
Granddad grunted a laugh, the lines around his eyes gathering into a smile. He poured himself a tall cup of strong tea, settled on his usual chair by the window, and began his story:
I went to catering college against my fathers wishes. He wanted an engineer for a son said that was the only true mans profession. Kitchens, hed grumble, were no place for a man.
But even as a boy, I loved helping my mother in the kitchen. By seven, I could make broth for myself, Dad, and Nan, whod often pop in. Mum was a nurse at St. Marys, always on night shifts, so she came home tired, with no energy for cooking. Thats when Id step in barely up to the worktop, as your nan said, but my little hands could fly with a paring knife. Dad used to eat my stews with a loud smack of his lips though sending me to cookery school he resisted, tooth and nail.
But stubbornness runs in this family, you know. Once an idea took root, that was it. I did well at college too, learned new things every day. There was nothing more satisfying than coming home and surprising Mum.
Never thought a lump of beef could be called steak, entrecôte, or roast, shed say.
And Id smile, puffed up with pride though looking back, a bit too smug for my own good.
I had my placement in the canteen at the old steam engine works. New kids like me always got the cold prep. Slicing vegetables for salads was safe, they said not like stewing a massive pot of broth. But Mrs. Brown, head cook, lovely woman, let me sneak into the hot kitchen to help. I adored the sizzle and bubbling imagined myself a grand chef one day, ruling the kitchen while all the pots, pans, and ladles bowed to my genius.
Then, one day, the canteen manager, Mrs. Evans, pulled me back to earth:
Benjamin, down to the cellar please, she said, We need a barrel of cabbage pickled.
I quite enjoyed chopping cabbage, as long as there was a good, sharp knife.
So, there I was, by a tiny grating in the musty cellar, slicing through my fifth head of cabbage, when a faint skittering caught my ear. I must tell you, there is nothing in the world I dread more than rats. I dont faint like some do, but the sight gives me the shivers.
Looking up, two beady eyes stared right back at me, a long, nasty tail nearly touching my cap. Utterly terrified, I fled up the steps, slamming the door shut and pressed my back to it, heart hammering, skin crawling all over.
Done already? Mrs. Evans called from her office.
Im not going back down there, I told her, puffing up my chest to sound brave.
You have to, she insisted. Its your job. I could lower your mark if you refuse.
Lower it if you must, but I shant go down.
Despite her threats, she didnt dock my grade, but I couldnt help seeing the job anew. I hadnt signed up to battle rats in a dark cellar every week. It seemed a small chance but the thought haunted me.
So, when I got my cookery certificate, I decided to work with my father at his workshop. I wont bore you with the details not all above board, getting me in but Dad was delighted. Finally come to your senses! he said. I decided home cooking was enough scope for my chefs talent, Granddad ended, savouring the last of his massive mug of tea.
Now Im grown, with a family of my own, and every time I visit the old home, my heart swells. On Grannys table still sits that trusty tin of her biscuit treasures, and on the old hob, Granddads thick stew gently simmers.
You two should rest, you hardworking souls, I say, tying on my own apron.
Biscuits and stew are well and good, but theres milk porridge to make, rice pudding to whip up, and a whole batch of steamed meatballs to prepare. No sense letting Granddad be the only cook in the family after all, his granddaughters taken up the apron now.
