Grandma's Cakes and a Bloody Pain

My grandma looked the part.  She was round and soft, with arms like ham shanks.  Only took her pinny off when she put her hat on to leave the house. Oh yes, she looked the part, but her cooking left a lot to be desired. It was a very limited repertoire according to my mum, who was brought up on undercooked potatoes and soggy greens. 

One thing she could do though was bake a mean rock cake. Nobody was ever sure if that was the intended outcome but they were delicious if rock bun was the expectation. It was grandma’s signature dish - if only that title had existed 60 years ago.  I have a vivid memory and I think it only happened once - perhaps grandma was protective of her secret recipe - but we squeezed into her tiny kitchen and together made of batch of the famous buns.  For me this was a treat. Not the baking, as I did that with my mum quite regularly, but baking with grandma.  I had one of her huge pinnies tied around my waist, hands washed, ready for action.  

Grandma had an old enamel table where all the action took place.  The scales came out, complete with the different sized weights, which fascinated me. If I remember rightly the weighing was a pretty casual activity.  Grandma had had very little education and I wonder now whether the scales were only used to impress me.  I can see those ham shank arms now, bowl under the left one, right hand frantically beating the marge and sugar with a worn wooden spoon.  I was allowed a turn but my beating wasn’t a patch on grandma’s and the bowl was soon back under her arm.  Eggs were next.  I was allowed to break one, and hoped grandma’s eyesight wasn’t up to detecting the tiny shards of shell that fell into the mixture. It was agreed that I could add the currants, and I’m sure this particular batch of cakes suffered a significant deficit of fruit through this one decision. 

The best part was adding the flour, which came in a huge bag that I was told not to touch. I’m guessing grandma had probably experienced the split flour bag in the past and didn’t want it repeated.  I remember watching, fascinated, as she tipped the flour into the pan to weigh.  I was facing the window as the sun shone through and found myself  mesmerised by the white powder caught in the light*.  I don't think grandma possessed a sieve.  Finally, and without ceremony, spoonfuls of mixture were plonked onto a greased baking tray - no dainty paper cases for grandma - and placed in the oven.  By the time we’d washed up, the cakes were out and cooling on a rack.  The biggest treat was being told I could eat one fresh from the oven - lots of blowing and oohs and ahhs whilst trying not to burn my mouth. That was when the cakes were at their best. Fortunately there were always lots of willing testers, and the inevitable rapid deterioration of such a random mixture was rarely experienced. 

I carried on the baking tradition

Against all odds my mum became an excellent cook and an equally proficient baker. In fact she went on to teach Cordon Bleu Cookery which was all the rage in the '70s.  I’m sure this is where I gained my love of cooking, and eventually went on to start up a cake making business which ran for several years. It was at the time when shops were displaying loose goods in huge tubs as a way to lure customers into buying more cheaply.  Each week I would go to Fine Fare and fill bags with all the baking essentials. 

One week the flour tub was empty.  I asked an assistant if they had any more, and slightly huffily, she said she’d look.  Whilst I waited I wandered around the nearest aisles, picking up other items from my list. I heard two voices approaching the tub section and started up the aisle to collect my flour.  As I approached the women from behind I heard the following exchange:

Assistant one: it’s that bloody woman wanting flour.

Assistant two: oh she’s a pain, always wanting something that isn’t there. 

Without missing a beat, I said icily, ‘Well that pain of a bloody woman is right behind you, so could she have her flour now, please?’ 

The flour was handed over without a word, both assistants’ eyes fixed firmly on the floor.  I think it’s the only time I’ve done an about turn that could be accurately described as a flounce. 

I can laugh about it now - no doubt I was a bloody pain - but at the time it gave me great pleasure to think of those women staring worriedly at each other, without uttering a word, and squirming as I waltzed off to the till with my bag of flour. I just hope I hadn’t got my skirt tucked in my knickers...

*It’s such an abiding memory that I’ve tried to recreate it several times with my photography. 

The Windmill by Jill Reidy

It stands proud, solid 

Here to stay

Arms waving 

Paddles whirling

Water flowing 

Whilst inside

In a tiny room

Round as a penny

More whirring 

More grinding

Blades spin

Devour the wheat

With little fuss

And fine white powder 

Settles on every surface 

Flour 

Main player in the staff of life 

Thanks for reading - Jill x