by Sheila Maher
Usually Mum made ‘The Cake’ during the midterm break, but this year November came and went, December was more than half over, and Christmas cake or Christmas pudding hadn’t been mentioned. At the last minute Mum was trying to make Christmas normal, so she had set aside this afternoon to make her cake.
I liked stirring the mixture, tasting it and watching as it changed colour and consistency with the addition of each new ingredient. I wasn’t strong enough to stir it for long, though. When I tired, the only thing I could do to stay involved in this special ritual was tip each ingredient from the weighing scales into the bowl. This was not a very responsible job, but I understood that when it came to the Christmas cake, I was lucky to be involved at all. For making the Christmas cake made Mum anxious; it was a complex and delicate operation and mistakes could not be tolerated.
The cake baked in the oven for what seemed like an entire day. Its fragrance permeated every corner of the house, upstairs and down. It was taken out of the oven several times, prodded deeply with a knitting needle and then returned for further cooking. When it was finally judged to be cooked, had several hours to cool and was unwrapped from its papery nest, Mum made her initial assessment. She would judge it either a disaster or perfect. There was no other option. In previous years she wrapped the cake in fresh layers of paper and stored it under her bed, taking it downstairs every week to spear it again with her knitting needle and douse it with whiskey. With only four days to go until Christmas, that ritual was dropped this year.
Mum blared up her Bing Crosby and Nat King Cole festive discs on her 3-in-1 record player as she moved about the house doing the domestic chores associated with Christmas – decorating the skinny tree, hanging the Christmas cards on string over the fireplace, icing the cake – enthusiastically helped by me and Kevin. The music played loudly and I took great pleasure in her booming rendition of ‘Santa Claus is Coming to Town’, as she sang along with Bing Crosby and the Andrews Sisters. Even Catherine and Lucy didn’t shout at Mum to ‘Pleeease turn it down!’, as they would have done in years gone by.
Dad drifted from the sitting room to his bedroom. His bony frame protruded through the scratchy thick wool of his dressing gown as he shuffled from one room to the other. His false teeth had not helped him to get better. He loved Bing Crosby and I hoped that he was smiling, above in his bed, as Mum turned up the record player when Bing sang ‘Galway Bay’, ‘Swinging on a Star’ and ‘McNamara’s Band’ – songs they both enjoyed together.
After decorating the tree, the next best job was icing the cake. Mum’s almond icing was moist and very thick. She had two tricks that made her icing the best ever. The first was to add a small amount of glycerine to keep it soft. The second seemed quite bizarre to me. To make her icing a brilliant white, she added a few drops of laundry blue. Under the cold tap, she lightly rinsed a rag containing this magic blue, knotted somewhere inside it, then squeezed it over the icing bowl until several drops, the colour of doll’s eyes, splashed onto her white icing mix. Then she whipped it into the mixture and repeated the process until she was convinced her icing was a blinding white. This process seemed to me a bit unsanitary. To squeeze a dirty rag into our food? I wondered how we never got sick from it.
For a few years, with my encouragement, the cake decorations were very ornate, with fancy trellis work and tiny patterns around the sides. Mum had an old metal icing pump that had numerous different nozzles, which I screwed onto the top. Then I stuck my fingers and thumb through the red plastic rings and steadily applied pressure, squeezing the icing through in waves and curlicues. I enjoyed the repetition and the precision this task required. However, under time and patience constraints, Mum decided this year that she was finished with humouring me. This Christmas she was going back to her favourite design – the snow storm. She let me help with it, though, and I enjoyed lifting the icing into messy peaks with the flat of a knife. On the top, I stuck Santa Claus and a few other festive creatures, and Mum tied a wide red ribbon around the cake to hide the un-iced sides.
The cake sat, fully dressed, on the dining table for the last days before Christmas, and that is where I went to look at it when I wanted to admire it. I tapped gently on the icing to hear the tiny noise my nail made on its hardening surface. I stared at the miniature Santa, the robin that was twice his size and the funny green tree, with icing from Christmases past still clinging to its branches, all haphazardly stuck on the cake. I thought it was wonderful. I couldn’t wait for the ceremony of cutting the cake on Christmas Eve when Mum carried it into the kitchen, after an evening tea of warm baked ham on fresh white bread.
If only I liked Christmas cake. I wished I could like it. Every year I tasted a bit in the hope of liking it. Every year I spat it out onto my red serviette. I liked the almond icing and the white icing, but to me the cake itself was terrible. Visitors were always offered some and I watched them enjoy it. Dad loved it and it’s true to say that he ate most of it. On St Stephen’s Day he was allowed to be reckless in the kitchen. He’d finish his modest breakfast of one Weetabix with warm milk and then, with a wry smile, he’d lift the carefully wrapped cake off the trolley, where it remained during its short lifespan, and cut himself a thick slice. Without getting a plate or even a serviette to put it on – those were Mum’s niceties – he’d devour the slice, standing up, in two joyous mouthfuls. He knew he was being wicked and loved every moment of it. Mum indulged his rare lapse into gluttony; after all, she was receiving a well-deserved compliment, in actions if not in words.
When Dad attempted to cut a slice on subsequent mornings all romanticism was gone, and he was told in Mum’s most practical voice that he had to watch his health, his weight, his heart. However, he usually found plenty of other opportunities to eat Christmas cake and bit by fruity bit. Dad, with some assistance from visitors, made his way through the entire ten-inch square.
Not this year.
The Christmas cake remained unopened and uneaten on the trolley when Dad went into hospital in January.
The Roast
Dad left for the hospital on a Sunday afternoon – ‘so he would be seen to first thing on Monday morning,’ Mum said. We each hugged him goodbye. He squeezed me very tightly. He had watery eyes. Mum packed him into the car and they drove off in the darkening evening. Grandma shut the door after them and ushered us back into the safety of the sitting room. We were going to get a roast this Sunday as a feeble form of compensation, as a way of keeping routines going, keeping life normal.
The roast was the meal event of the week. Its preparation and consumption had been the same every Sunday for years. Preparation would start early on Sunday morning. Before Mass, Mum peeled vast piles of potatoes and left them in her largest saucepan covered in cold water; she scraped bags of carrots; she organised bowls, the gravy boat, trays, plates and serving dishes around the oven where they would get warm when the oven came on (she timed it to switch on while we were out). Later in the afternoon, when we returned from a reluctant (on my part) walk in the Dublin Mountains or Killiney Head, the cooking began in earnest. I could hear the work from the sitting room, where mouth-watering smells reached me as I watched television.
Around six o’ clock, Dad would be called to the kitchen. A minute later I’d see him walking up the back garden into the shed, where he sharpened the carving knife on his sharpening stone. Then he’d return to the kitchen and start to carve the meat. No bone was too knuckly, no joint too gristly for Dad and his newly sharpened knife. Even Mum’s dry brown beef, which had turned crunchy and black on the outside after most of the day in the oven, cut easily into razor-thin slices under Dad’s knife.
Mum would call the rest of us in several minutes before she served dinner. It took us time, and her increasingly angry calls, to drag ourselves away from the television, our bedrooms or whatever it was we were doing. I’d enter the steamed-up kitchen, with Mum running back and forth from sink to cooker to table and sink again. Draining, stirring, mashing, glazing – all done at t
he last minute, all done single-handedly.
The first five minutes at the table were always chaotic, as we all tried to serve ourselves and each other at once, passing dishes, bowls and the gravy boat around until every plate was loaded. A mini-Christmas every week. Calmness would then descend as we tucked in and devoured our dinners.
The well-cooked meat, dry and curling slightly at the edges, would be served with two vegetables from Mum’s repertoire – cauliflower with cheese sauce (a sauce so dense it completely disguised the rustic taste of cauliflower); carrots, sometimes smothered in thick parsley sauce; peas; carrots and parsnips mashed together; green beans (with pieces of rasher added to give the soggy strings a modicum of flavour); or Brussels sprouts. These vegetables were bubbled and boiled until all life was drained from them. If there was the faintest bite left in the vegetables, someone was sure to complain. ‘These vegetables are raw!’ And Mum would apologise. There were always more than enough potatoes to go around – two roast for everyone (three for Dad) and then some extra, mashed, for the very hungry. All served piping hot with a boat of dark brown Bisto gravy and any other necessary titbits: apple sauce with pork, stuffing with chicken, mint jelly with lamb and, occasionally, Yorkshire puddings with beef.
The meal may have taken most of the day to prepare but it never took us more than ten minutes to wolf it down. We had big appetites and rose easily to the challenge of large portions and plates piled high. There was even the option of second helpings if anyone wanted, which most of us did. The idea of getting only one plate of food to eat was anathema to us. ‘Who’ll have the last bit of breast?’ or ‘It won’t be the same tomorrow’ was what Mum said as she placed the last morsels of food on our cleared plates. And I ate it all, regardless of how much I had eaten already or how tight the skin was stretching across my belly.
I also had to remember to leave room for dessert, as Mum always went that extra mile on Sunday. Milk puddings might do during the week, but Sunday meant trifle, mousse or pavlova – a dessert with a little X factor.
Once the dinner plates were removed to the sink, Mum presented her dessert. This was where her real talents in the kitchen lay. In the creation of all things rich and sweet, she reigned supreme. She never had to fish for compliments during this course, as unmistakable noises of pleasure spontaneously escaped from us. A cacophony of hmmms and ahhhhs told Mum how much we were enjoying it. And the fight for the last piece said it all.
At seventy-eight years of age, Grandma had cooked many kinds of roast in her day but it was a long time since she had cooked one for a whole family. As all four of us sat watching Little House on the Prairie the day Dad went into hospital, we listened to Grandma moving about our kitchen, unfamiliar to her, opening and closing presses and drawers in obvious confusion. While Mum had prepared the potatoes and put the chicken in the oven before leaving, Grandma was left to prepare the vegetables and put it all together. Catherine and Lucy weren’t usually interested in offering any culinary help but each of them stuck their heads around the kitchen door and asked Grandma if she was okay. She said she was fine. I was eager to help her but I was not skilled enough to be of much use. So after standing idly behind her at the cooker for a few minutes, I left her alone and returned to the hushed sitting room. None of us knew exactly the right thing to do, so we kept the volume on the television low and half watched it, while half listening to Grandma’s slower movements around the kitchen.
We’ d never had a roast chicken without Mum and Dad before and I felt strange and lonely sitting around the table laden with food, without them present. Grandma had done her best to carve the chicken, two drumsticks were discernible on a serving plate but were surrounded by shredded pieces of white and brown meat all mixed up and slick with fatty juices. Carrots, cut in rounds and not in strips the way Mum prepared them, were glistening from the copious amount of melted butter that dripped over them. The roast potatoes, while abundant, were pale and soft, rather than the golden crispiness of Mum’s. The gravy was cloudy and a light brown colour, clearly no Bisto had been used in its making. We each sat politely around the display of food, and the usual mad interweaving of reaching arms was absent, as we waited for Grandma to signal that it was okay to start serving ourselves. As soon as she told us to tuck in, we made a start, but with an unusual reserve.
It was a quiet roast. We answered Grandma’s questions, but spoke little otherwise. I was thinking of Dad. He was in hospital and not just for one night. He was having an operation. It was serious. Mum’s face and his hugs told me so.
I didn’t feel like second helpings. Grandma filled a plate with a bit of everything for Mum, covered it with the lid of a saucepan and placed it in the oven to keep warm. Each of the leftovers she plated individually and put in the fridge. There was no dessert and I didn’t mind. I took a few biscuits into the sitting room and watched a last bit of telly for some distraction, hoping Mum would get home before I had to go to bed.
I was drifting off to sleep when I heard the front door gently click shut. Mentally I was getting up to go downstairs and see Mum but the next time I opened my eyes it was Monday morning.
Kevin’s Birthday Tea
Kevin turned eight on the 20th of January 1980. Dad was not home yet and we had not seen him since he left, so Kevin had to celebrate his birthday without him. The enthusiasm for a party was always somewhat dimmer in January, the festivities of Christmas still lingering. But Kevin wasn’t too bothered – once he got his Star Wars action figures, he was happy. Despite the bad timing, Mum prepared the usual ‘spread’ for Kevin’s birthday tea. The menu was fixed. It never varied. That’s what each of us wanted and that’s what each of us got.
savoury menu for birthday tea party
ham sandwiches; egg sandwiches
vol-au-vents
(Chicken for the children; mushroom for the adults)
cocktail sausages
(Glistening straight from the oven with cocktail sticks poking out in every direction)
double-decker sandwiches
As soon as Mum heard of double-decker sandwiches, they became a staple at birthday teas. They were made using four slices of bread: cottage cheese spread on one, Heinz Sandwich Spread on the second, and mashed hard-boiled egg on the third. The fourth slice was placed on top. These sandwiches were cut into long thin fingers, which instantly made them special and sophisticated, a bit like sandwiches cut into triangles with no crusts. The overriding taste was of Heinz Sandwich Spread. Its vinegar kick overwhelmed the mild moistness of the cottage cheese and even managed to disguise the pungent hard-boiled egg.
For my first helping, I filled up my paper plate – birthday parties were the only time Mum used paper plates – with a bit of everything: one of each kind of sandwich, a chicken vol-au-vent, and as many sausages as I could spear onto the same cocktail stick. A big jug of Miwadi diluted orange stood in the middle of the table and I gulped at several cups of this to help wash down all the lovely stodge. My second helping was less ambitious, consisting of just one double-decker and a few sausages. When our pace had slowed to a halt and all the sausages were gone, Mum cleared away the plates and bowls in preparation for the next round.
sweet menu for birthday tea party
meringues
(So light, you couldn’t feel their weight in your palm. When they were stuck together with cream, they sparkled in their paper cases. Their delicacy meant they disintegrated with the slightest touch. It was best to eat them quickly so that your mouth got to enjoy the crumbling, dissolving sensation and not your fingers.)
birthday cake
(A butterless sponge; light and fluffy, it was filled with cream and strawberry jam, and the thinnest layer of melted chocolate on top. Candles for the birthday boy or girl.)
tea time express cake
(An optional extra, depending on how many adults were present.)
fancy biscuits
(A large plate of Viscount biscuits in lush green and orange foil wrappers; Garibaldi biscuit
s snapped into uneven pieces; any one of the Kimberly, Mikado and Coconut Cream trio; and Bourbon Creams.)
chocolate rice krispie buns
(Mandatory at every party.)
We couldn’t start the sweet course until the birthday rituals had been played out. Mum lit the candles and whoever was nearest the switch turned out the lights. Kevin blew out the candles, we clapped and sang an awkward ‘Happy Birthday’ and ‘For He’s a Jolly Good Fellow’ – no one made eye contact throughout – and then it was almost time to cut the cake.
Before this could be done, there was one final ritual to be endured – it fell to the birthday boy or girl to make a speech. Everyone had to be thanked for ‘coming to my party’ and ‘for all the lovely presents’. No matter how embarrassing it was or how near tears I felt when it was my party, with a heat rash breaking out in blotches on my neck, I’d have to stand up and give the ‘minimum requirement’ speech. Trembling and hot, it would take me a few minutes to calm down afterwards. There could be quite a wait for cake on Catherine’s birthday. Enjoying the limelight from an early age, she always gave a full speech at her parties, with some funny ad-libs too. Kevin and Lucy, however, were worse than me. Both had been known to burst into tears and bolt from the room or crawl under the kitchen table when it was their turn to make the speech. This year was no exception. Kevin started to blush and ran from the room before uttering a word of thanks. Without Dad to chase up the stairs after him and drag him back, it fell to Grandma to fetch him. Back in the kitchen, we pretended not to hear her gently cajoling and humouring him. He reluctantly returned and muttered the briefest and most ungracious speech. Then at last Mum cut the cake.
