
Aug-Oct-2017
We Like To Eat: My Gran's Jam Sandwiches
2 slices of white bread (per person)
Butter
Strawberry jam (Preferably homemade)
Butter one side of each slice of white bread. Spread one buttered side with strawberry jam. Place other buttered side face-down onto jam to create sandwich. Cut into squares and serve with either tea or orange squash.
When I think of my gran's house, my overwhelming feeling is one of happiness. She lived with my grandad (who we called Granf) in an end-of-terrace council house in Bower Hinton, Somerset. It was a place where even my dad seemed to relax - spinning me around as we danced to old Rock n Roll 45s on my gran's multi-stack record player.
Granf, though, was a serious man who took no messing. He liked nothing better than to smoke his pipe, watch the horses on the telly, and fuss over his fat Jack Russell terrier, Sindy, who he would often feed his cups of tea to from his saucer.
By contrast, my gran was a jolly woman, quite mischievous, with white curly hair and "plump" (I once made the mistake of asking her why she was so fat, to which she immediately replied, "I'm not fat. I'm plump". Lesson learned). On many levels, she was the embodiment of Terry Pratchett's Nanny Ogg - except my gran's cooking was far less 'experimental', sticking to the traditional meat and two veg variety.
The exception was Sunday teatime which, unlike every other meal which we had to sit at the table to eat, we could eat on our laps. Sunday tea at my gran's house consisted of sandwiches made with the leftover meat from the Sunday roast (and, sometimes, also tinned ham), jam sandwiches, homemade buns, and either a homemade jam sponge or boiled fruitcake. This was all served with cups of tea for the grown-ups and tupperware beakers of orange squash for us kids.
When I became a grown-up myself, I often tried to recreate my gran's strawberry jam sandwiches but could never get it quite right. As she had died of Cancer, she was no longer around to ask. So this lead to some experimenting in the kitchen. Thinking it was the jam, I piled it higher and higher trying to recapture the jamminess of them. It never worked. Then, one day, I had a brainwave - instead of buttering just the one slice, I buttered both slices. Eureka! I had managed to recreate my gran's jam sandwiches. It wasn't the jam, after all. It was the butter!
One word that always comes to mind for me, meaning a" fool" or " waste of space" is GOBSHITE. There was never any malace in the word and was more a term of endearment than anything else.
When I was a small kid and fell over grazing a knee or God forbid spilling a bit of that Irish blood on the pavement, when a grown up looked at the wound and realised the extent of the exaggeration, they would say....."LOOK WHAT HAPPENED TO HIM"... "HE FELL OVER A MATCHSTICK AND A FLY KICKED HIM"... I know, its confusing to say the least. and still struggle to get my head around it.
I think you get a sense of your own voice too by reading a lot, stuff you like and also dislike to give a broad spectrum.
The call came
I answer it
She utters the password
The black hole opens
The sofa breaks my fall.
Death waits in the kitchen
I pass it by, reluctantly.
Tears roll down my face
I long for wipers
I long to be a romantic ending
I am neither sexy nor a boy
Not anymore.
Enter the same door
Meet the same receptionist
The last seven weeks or more.
She ushers me away
No expense spared
None the less
A scene of devastation
Leather and furniture polish
Cold walls and roaring fire
Full of nonsensical words
An over-familiar tone
Spilling over
With hope and aspiration
I am an alien.
For what use?
For whose need?
Longing for the return
Should never have left
What value has life?
This instant
I know just the man
Always dependable
I am here for him.
Sun-eclipsed
Recoils
I retreat into past light
We hold hands again
I need not let go this time
Prise his fingers from mine.
I feel it's suck.
The gesture is concern
The moment is normal
As before, the world still turns
The audacity of it!
'Stop The World I Want To Get Off'
The music has stopped
Words sheared of their tune
Cacophony.
The tea is warm and sweet
Reminders of him
The unfairness of the exchange
"What is your returns policy?"
I still wait for an answer
There is none.