Any tips would be much appreciated. Cheers.
Sitting in Mamie’s Kitchen
Mamie frowns at the oven, ‘It’s just not hot. Why isn’t it hot like that?’ She opens the door and sticks her hand in, ‘I don’t understand.’ Frustratedly she switches the knobs higher and turns back to the table where I’m sitting. She picks up a knife in one hand and an apple in the other. Behind her an old saucepan is on the stove; it’s lid half on to let the steam out. Something is bubbling away; everynow and then Mamie peers into it and gives it a stir.
She is slicing the apple very carefully, laying each piece out on a small dish. She cuts them thin; in half moon slices. There are a few bruises on the apple and she removes them; despositing them in a small bucket next to the sink. Later she will empty it into the compost outside.
She has finished cutting the apple now and is searching for something in the fridge. She takes a roll of pastry out and a glass dish from the cabinet below. She lays the pastry out in the shallow dish, carefully pressing it down.
She glances at me, ‘normally I make it. But today there isn’t the time. It’s a shame, really. It’s better when I make it.’
She’s finished with the pastry now and picks up a small container of something orange and frozen.
‘Compote.’ She takes the lid off and puts it under my nose. ‘That, I made. From the fruits in the garden.’
‘Really?’
‘Yes, in summer we harvest them and cook the compote. Big batches of it. Then we can freeze it and eat it after.’ She opens the microwave and puts it inside.
The light comes on and it hums softly.
Papie comes into the ktichen and walks past the table.
‘Tartine?’
‘Mmm, yes.’
He smiles, ‘it’s good, that.’
He stops by the window and looks out, ‘it’s raining.’
Mamie looks up, ‘really?’
‘Yeah. Not much.’
The compote is ready. She pulls it out and removes the lid. It steams into her glasses. She stirs it a little and offers me a spoonful. It’s warm and sweet.
‘Good?’ she asks.
‘Yeah.’
She spreads it across the pastry evenly with the back of a spoon. Soon it’s all covered. She lays each piece of apple carefully; creating a swirl of half moon slices. A small adjustment is made to the sides of the pastry before she puts it in the oven.
‘Tonight,’ she begins, ‘we’re having soup, you know soup?’
‘Yeah sure,’ I say.
‘Ok, so soup and then veal, you know veal?’
‘I know it.’
‘Right so veal...with carrots, mushrooms and onions, in a stew, you know?’
‘Sure.’
‘But I made it yesterday, ‘cos it’s always better the day after. Now we just have to add the mushrooms and warm it up.’
She walks past me and switches on the light by the stairs. I hear her descend and then it’s quiet, apart from the soft rain and bubbling on the stove. She comes back into the room; carrying a giant grey pot. She holds it with difficulty, her shoulders heaving a little under the pressure as she comes over to the table.
‘Ah, up there.’ She dumps it on the table. It’s chipped and worn from use.
She turns around and surveys the stove. There is a white bandage covering her forearm, last week she had an accident with some boiling water, pouring almost a whole pot on herself, getting her arm and leg.
‘There’s not the space,’ she murmurs.
She takes the saucepan from the stove and pulls it closer. She uses another saucepan and a large sive to drain the vegetables and meat from the pot. I watch as her arms shake and she pours a miw of carrots, beef, onions, potatoes and stocky water through the sive. The vegetables slop together and the stock sloshs through into the new pot. She pauses for a minute; resting the pot on the stove. She wipes her hand on her apron and shakes it slightly.
I wonder how many times she’s poured soup like this. First for her husband, then for her daughter, then her grand-daughter. Three generations of soup. And now, her hands shake.
She finshes pouring and puts the pot in the sink. The vegetables and meat go into a plastic container, apparently for our lunch tomorrow, she tells me. The soup goes back on the heat. Now there is room for te other pot. She lifts it gently and not without a grunt of effort; places it on the stove. It doesn’t fit quiet right, and topples from side to side when she touches it.
Soon the room fills with the smell of some ancient recipe. She adds half a can of drained mushrooms into the pot.
She turns to me, ‘come see.’
I stand next to her as she mixes the bubbling mass with a wooden spoon. Each time the pot moves a little makking a kind of clunking sound. It smells rich.
She adds some tiny, thin pasta to the soup, for texture, she tells me.
‘You know. Makes it stronger. Well then, what time is it now?’
I glance at my watch, ‘coming up to half past.’
‘Already!’ she turns around and opens the draw next to the oven.
I help take plates, knives, forks, and glasses into the dining room. She sets the table elebarotely, folding the napkins a special way to fit in the glasses. She sets 6 places, 4 for us and 2 for Papie and herself. She places are large baguette across the table and then small containers of crackers, nuts and chips. Two bottles of chilled water go out and some syrup for the girls.
Back in the kitchen she tends the pots on the stove. From the fridge she takes an already prepared tray of ouduerves. Little pastry cups full of cheese and different kinds of pâtés. She leaves them ready on the table for the others’ arrival.
The tartine now sits cooked on the bench. Mamie is carefully adjusting the pastry.
‘It’s not quick,’ she explains, ‘cooking. It takes time, if you want to do it well. It isn’t that hard but it does take time.’
She is carefully considering the pots on the stove. It has fallen prematurely dark, due to the weather, and the only light is coming from above the stove. It picks up the shine on her glasses. She is well kept, Mamie. A trip to the hair dresser once every two months to have her silver-grey hair trimmed back. She would dye it, but the dye irriates her skin. She wears light make-up, lip stick and eyeshadow. Her earings dangle low, and her necklace lies flat against her chest; a last attempt at beauty. She is just starting to lose her balance. On slightly, but you can tell it wanst long ago when she was steadier on her own feet. Fratility is creeping into her, soon cooking with these pots won’t be possible. And maybe soon she will start having more accidents like with the boiling water last week.
A car’s lights approach outside and a moment later we hear the bell ring.
‘They’re here.’ Mamie calls out needlessly.
She wipes her hands on her apron and goes into the hall. I hear them kiss; 4 times for her daughter and son in law and twice for her grand-daughter. They ask each other how they are before walking into the dining room. Papie searches for a bottle of wine and sits down at te table.
They talk a little on the weather – it’s unusually warm for October – and crack open pistachio shells.
Mamie returns to the kitchen and continues watching the pots. She will feed her family soon. She turns back tot he table and picks up the tray of oudeurves.
‘A table!’
Thanks again.
