dandelion

Having talked about what my dad did for a living for most of his adult life—and yes, while it’s true he once kicked a bomb, the truth is he worked as a Master Armourer in the military. My mother, on the other hand, was the homemaker. Partly because having six kids meant my mother was never going to have a career beyond being a fabulous baker, great cook, and amazing wrangler of several kids too many.

But things could have been so different if her life had taken another course, and her mother had been more supportive of opportunities offered my mother. And, as a young women, if the war hadn’t come along to derail everyone’s lives when it did.

My mother was 15 when she started working in the jute mills in Dundee, Scotland. It was during her time after work that she was discovered to have a natural talent. She had a fabulous singing voice. And while she was supposed to be too young to be in a bar (pub) it didn’t stop my mother from singing there, even at the tender age of 16.

And no, before you ask, she wasn’t discovered by the usual vocal scouts of the day looking for the latest pop singer. Don’t forget this was just as war in Europe was breaking out. The person that heard her sing was from the Scottish Opera and saw her talent. He approached her thinking she was probably 18 or older, and was both sad and happy to discover she was much younger. This meant involving the parents, and getting permission to have her audition with a view to a possible career singing in the Opera.

Sad to say that within the six months that things were happening for my mother’s hoped for new life, Britain was dragged into Word War II and her own mother refused to let her audition let alone consider a life in the opera. However prestigious that path might have been.

What could have been was a crushed dream. And, instead of that life, or even continuing to work in the mill, my mother ran away from home at 17 and joined the WAAFs to become an MT driver.

She told me that, in the end, she had no regrets at the way things turned out. Instead of a life singing on stage for others, she sang for the sheer joy of it, in a life that was, as she says, full to the brim. And in a way she could never have imagined as an innocent 16 year old.

All the what could have beens are just that, she made a life for herself and made the most of that life right on through to the end. And she did it her way, always singing, right on through to the last note.

𖡼.𖤣𖥧𖡼.𖤣𖥧

I miss Sunday lunch at my mother’s house. Not just because she made one of the best roast dinners, but because there was always a game of cards afterwards, or an old black and white movie to watch together. And yes, we were the only one’s out of all the family that indulged in this particular habit.

Or maybe, it was that I just indulged my mother. Knowing as I did that she like to watch these old movies and have a trip down memory lane and enjoy a moment of nostalgia with me. It wasn’t about the movie, but about sharing her memories. I treasure those anecdotes, they’re a small thread that leads me back to those afternoons with her.

I miss that as well as the roast pork, or roast lamb, cooked to perfection. Never mind the best roast potatoes you’ve ever tasted. Which reminds me of the day my dad made the best gravy any of us have ever tasted. It happened because he mistook the jar with the icing sugar in it to be the corn starch, and not wearing his glasses spooned in a couple of tablespoons of icing sugar into the usual onion and dripping mix in the roasting pan to thicken it and …

Wow, did that gravy taste great. I had no idea icing sugar could make such a difference. And no, before you ask, it wasn’t sweet tasting as you might think, it tasted like, well, onion gravy. But with an edge. That French something, Unami maybe? That mouth feel?

It’s hard to describe. But, from that mistake onwards, whenever we were all at my parents for a Sunday roast, it was unanimous that dad make his icing sugar gravy, whatever the meat being served.

My Sunday dinner is not the same, not only can I not replicate that gravy, but my dinner is always just okay. It could be the cut of meat is too small, or the oven is too big. But mostly I think it’s because my parents aren’t here, directing traffic and organising the chaos that went on in my mother’s kitchen so that the veg, meat, gravy, potatoes, and yes, all of us arrived at the table altogether, ready to eat.

𖡼.𖤣𖥧𖡼.𖤣𖥧