When you think of Christmas, which food springs to mind? Perhaps turkey, mince pies or mulled wine? For me, it’s the festive fruit tart my grandmother baked every year, to be eaten on Christmas Eve. When we settled down to eat dessert on 24 December, after all the hustle and bustle of festive preparations, journeys across the country and the tensions that often come with a family Christmas, the serving of the tart was a signal to relax.
But when my grandmother died unexpectedly in 2016, we couldn’t find the recipe anywhere. We scoured her kitchen, flicking through cookbooks and notes, but there was no sign of it. Her recipe, it seemed, had died with her.
That Christmas was brutal. Our celebrations were muted. Family members would dissolve into tears whenever Little Donkey, one of her favourite carols, played. Everywhere I looked, there were holes where Grandma should have been. She should have been sitting on her usual stool as we opened our presents. She should have been perched on the kitchen stairs while dinner was prepared, her offers of help being batted away. She should have been prodding us out of the door for one of her “little ambles” to walk off the mince pies. She should have been dishing up her tart on Christmas Eve.
For most of my life, my grandmother was the fittest older person I had ever met. Her great passion in life, aside from her family, was walking. She was most herself tramping along a footpath, eating a packed lunch in a sodden field or planning a route along the South West Coast Path. Even in her 80s, she could make it up a hill faster than me. She seemed invincible.
Because of this, and as young people so often do, I thought I had more time with her. I didn’t always text her back, I didn’t call her as often as I should have and didn’t visit nearly enough. I didn’t ask her enough questions. I didn’t take enough photos of her. I didn’t preserve the sound of her voice. I didn’t ask her for her recipes.
I thought I had more time. We always think we have more time.
