Yesterday, I was on after-school and after-kindergarten duty. All I had planned was to provide the boys with much-diluted apple cider drinks and the wholewheat raisin scones I'd baked for them, late morning. After that, I thought I'd read from 'Stories for Six Year-Olds', six being the mid point between the Blue-Eyed Boy who's seven now, and Curly-Locks, who's five.
"Let's make an apple pie," suggests the Blue-Eyed Boy, who loves to bake and cook.
Hmm. Nana's pastry-making skills? Not brilliant.
"How about apple crumble?"
"Fine."
So we set to. He measures out the flour. Spills some on the table by mistake. Looks to see my reaction. When I chuckle, he does too, and looks relieved.
He rubs the butter into the flour, adds a small amount of sugar and then manages to spice it up with a sprinkling of ground cloves and cinnamon.
I prepare and cook the apples; he retrieves an organic lemon from the fridge, picks up the peeler and adds a little to give flavour to the apples. And into the oven it goes. Later, his dad phones to say the dessert was delicious.
But me, I remember one of the first times the Blue-eyed Boy and I baked together. After I'd shown him how to crack an egg and he'd dropped it into the mixture, he turned to me and said, "I love you, Nana."
And Curly-Locks? He enjoyed hearing 'The Old Woman Who Lived in a Vinegar Bottle' and 'The Gingerbread Boy'.
