Out went macaroons

When I was twelve and fat, my mother stopped baking. 

Out went macaroons, and butter sinking

slowly through hot scones. Out went rock buns

with their shy request for half an egg. In came

Ryvitas, dry as dead men’s ashes. In came 

skimmed milk measured in a 20-calorie jug. 

Behind closed doors, soft bags of ground almonds

still rubbed shoulders with bottles of vanilla essence 

and cochineal. Shelves were sticky

with the pink rings of glace cherry tubs, immanent 

with the rattle of cake racks against blackened tins. 

Greaseproof sheets still jammed the drawer 

but my mother’s back was turned. In fear she went

shop-bought, hid Wagon Wheels 

in the spare room wardrobe. I stole them often: 

ate whole packets in one go, to keep the crime clean.

Her cookbooks, plump with cuttings, look modest

on my shelf. Her inked instructions are neat 

and strict. ‘Bake in deep tin – it rises!’ ‘Heat but 

do not boil!’ Despite my broken waistline, these days

I bake often, finding her in the sweet density 

of marzipan, the bitter puff of burnt currants. 

Mandy Sutter.