Cooking Up Christmas

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After a couple of hours’ sleep, Esme awoke and went downstairs to write her first proper recipe for the blog. It was the first Monday she should have been at work and it felt strange to be her own boss and not have anywhere to go. Esme wrestled with a restlessness that filled her muscles with unspent energy as she flitted around the kitchen making herself a cup of tea.

So much had happened in such a short space of time. Less than a week ago her life had been ticking along as normal, her routine engrained in her mind and body. She could have walked to the tube station blindfolded and told you exactly what Leo would say in any given situation. She wondered what he was doing now. He’d have been to the gym and be at work already. Resisting the urge to cry, Esme clicked through her blog– her future – and sat back on the sofa, waiting for the number of hits to start pinging. Deep down, she knew this wasn’t going to happen, but couldn’t resist watching for half an hour anyway.

She picked up her grandma’s recipe book. The black leather cover was worn and frayed at the edges. The red ribbon she had inherited with it was beginning to fray as it forced numerous pieces of paper covered with scribbles and scrawlings back inside. She took off the band and opened it to leaf through its pages, examining each one and the delicate handwriting listing the recipes.

Affection and tenderness warmed her through. Her great-grandma’s fingers had touched these pages, as well as her grandma’s and her mum’s. Carol’s attempts at cooking from her youth were weirder and wilder, involving a lot of Seventies aspic-based recipes and random swearing. But her grandma had been an amazing cook and family legend had it that Esme’s great-grandma had been incredible too, creating exciting dishes even through rationing. This was why Esme loved cooking so much. It was history, their history. It meant her grandma who had helped her through so much, whose loss she had felt so deeply, would never be forgotten if her recipes were still being cooked, and the love that went into them still existed.

An old torn piece of paper fell from the side and she picked it up, turning it over in her fingers. It was a recipe for vanilla biscuits and in the margin, in a small, elegant hand, she could see the words, ‘Carol loves these’. Her grandma had written it and Esme smiled at the thought of her mum as a little girl, begging for biscuits just as she and Alice had done. She carefully placed it back inside and glanced again at the counter on her blog. It still registered zero hits. She checked the clock. It was now just after lunch and boredom gnawed at her brain. Esme made herself a bowl of cereal and sat back down on the sofa, still in her pyjamas, two jumpers and her favourite big, fluffy bed socks. Pulling one of the throws off the back of the seat, Esme tucked it around her as the cold of the cottage tried to seep into her bones.

Spooning soggy cornflakes into her mouth (she hated them all hard and crunchy), she opened the book to her favourite comfort food recipe. Just reading the words ‘orange tea bread’ made Esme’s mouth water. Maybe this could be her first recipe for the blog? After leafing through the book and scanning the index in her brain, Esme decided this was definitely the right one to begin with, and even though she’d made it so many times before, she wanted to test it one last time, just to make sure the measurements were all correct. Esme moved to the kitchen and began weighing out flour, butter, sugar and boiling oranges for the tea bread.

The rickety old cottage was soon filled with the sweet smell of oranges and when the loaf was cooked and cooled, Esme cut a piece and smothered it with butter. Taking a bite was like being 5 years old again, home from school at her grandma’s house while her mum worked. Esme remembered being hungry and happy sitting with her grandma at her old fold-out table, talking about the things she had done at school that day, or playing Happy Families with Alice. It was one of her favourite recipes of all time.

Esme re-read the instructions she’d written down, changing some of the wording and some of quantities to suit her own palate. Instead of white sugar, she had added light brown sugar for a hint of toffee and though she could use orange juice or flavouring, real oranges were better. Two hours later, she helped herself to another slice of the delicious bread and typed up her findings, posting for the second time.

*

Grandma’s Kitchen

Hi again, everybody. For the first-ever recipe here on Grandma’s Kitchen, I wanted to share one of my favourites and one that means a lot to me. This is great for a tea party (if people still have those) or kids’ parties, or just as a snack for yourself. I’m presenting my comforting and delicious Orange Tea Bread! Ta da!

This is delicious warm or cold and you can even have it as dessert with some ice cream, crème fraiche or mascarpone. I used to eat this when I was little and it’s still my favourite comfort food recipe today. And I don’t mind telling you, I need a little comfort at the moment. If you’re going through a bit of a hard time, like me, this is just what you need. It’ll give you a warm fuzzy feeling right through to your soul.

It’s really simple to make, so don’t worry. All you do is: gently simmer an orange or two small clementines in a small amount of water for about an hour until soft. You don’t even have to peel them! Once they’ve boiled and cooled, whizz them up into an orangey mush. The last time I made this with my mum, which was shockingly a couple of years ago now, she kept stealing most of my orange mixture to add to a glass of Prosecco. It makes a wicked posh Buck’s Fizz. Needless to say, mum got sozzled and I finished the cooking alone. Now … cream the sugar and butter together then add everything else and spoon in the orange mixture.

To see if it’s cooked, test it in the middle with a skewer. If the skewer comes out clean, it’s done.

Enjoy! And let me know how you get on!

*

After the snack, Esme checked the counter again. Still nothing. It was four o’clock and the bright afternoon sun was beginning to set, casting the brown fields in a warm orange light. Writing the post had been difficult. Esme struggled with how much to say and how much to hold back. She didn’t want the world to know every little detail of her life, but she wanted to be open and connect with her readers on a personal level. Some of the blogs she’d read were so cold; just a list of direct instructions that read like orders. She wanted people to read hers and feel like they were with a friend. That they weren’t alone. But sitting staring at the counter wasn’t helping her mood so Esme changed into her running clothes and laced up her trainers.

She’d missed running when she was in London. Leo always used the posh gym, saying it wasn’t safe to run outside. Esme hated it. A treadmill just wasn’t the same as the ground beneath your feet. As Esme left the house and began running through fields with nothing and no one around, she felt a strange sense of freedom. As she ran, the wind blew away the few stray hairs that had escaped from her ponytail and it cooled her cheeks, even though she was hot and sweaty. Her lungs filled with clean air and her heart, beating hard, reminded her she was alive, fit and healthy, even if that heart still ached for the man she’d loved so much.

An hour later she opened the front door, her lungs burning from the effort, her body fired up and igniting. The smell of the orange tea bread still hung on the air, making her smile. With the energy that had been pulsing through her body now spent, Esme ran a bath, washing her long red hair with a jug. After changing into clean pyjamas and adding four more long jumpers to keep out the cold, she checked the counter again. Still nothing.

This was excruciating. How long did she have to wait for someone to read her blog? There were millions of people in the world – surely one of them wanted to read about cooking? Esme sighed and grabbed her phone to call Lola.