Though we were nurtured by Mum’s cooking daily, my parents’ brood thought little of the effort required, though we devoured the efforts made. It wasn’t until later in life, having donned the mantle of cook as a career, did I begin to appreciate quite what was required to feed a large, boisterous family well. For the most part, we ate simple Scots fare – lentil soup, mince and tatties, suet puddings – but, on occasion, Mum would sit at the counter, trawling through her favourite books, cigarette in hand, and, indicating a find, would duly pen a shopping list.
One such instance was for a birthday feast – Mum’s and mine, for I was born on Mum’s birthday – and the date was the 21st. And this particular birthday was my 21st. Birthdays for the most part were celebrated by just the family around the table at home, and, usually in both Mum and Dad’s hands: the triumphant entrance of a splendid cake, made in whichever child’s favourite flavour (chocolate for my sister, while I adored a spiced fruit cake, thickly iced). I always felt that mum’s birthday was overshadowed by mine, which seemed somewhat unfair. So, for this celebration, I volunteered to bake a cake – an offer she kindly accepted. And so Mum graciously relinquished her kitchen – in itself quite something, for the kitchen was her domain – but more of that anon.
