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.
