Down memory lane

Attempt No. 1

Today is the first day my son has started school full time. He has joined his sister there, and I am left pondering what I will do with my days now that the house is empty. As a mum of two, of course I’m excited about getting some time to myself, but mostly, I’m scared. I’m scared of being lonely, of being bored, scared that the kids don’t need me anymore.

I know I’m being ridiculous, I have plenty of work and what children don’t need their mother? But there it is, let it not be said that I am a rational person.

Anyway, I think about what I could do, and the urge to be the best mum in the world — no pressure — makes me think back to what made me happy when I was little. Well, I haven’t changed much, and the answer is still the same today: food. What could I cook or bake to pass the time and blow the little suckers’ minds away?

And then, I’ve got it. My Pépé’s milk bread. Back to my French roots then (Pépé is Gramps in French). I have such fond memories of his milk bread. I loved the fact that it was him baking, not my Mémé (you’ve guessed it, Mémé is Granny), and of course like Marcel Proust’s madeleine, it brings back all kinds of memories. I remember the smell of yeast in the kitchen as the dough proved, and the yellow crumb and the gold crust. I remember the butter melting on the first slice that was cut off the loaf, still warm. It was so scrumptious!

And just like that, I am carried back some 30-35 years ago, on holidays at my grandparents’ house. Sometimes with my favourite cousin Sophie, sometimes alone, or with my little brother (never as much fun, that!). The memories are hazy as it was so long ago, but as ever when I think of these times, my heart fills with happiness and warmth.

I find a recipe in one of my many cookbooks, and I give it a go. This is a bit of an improvisation, I’ve never really baked bread from scratch before. It’s sticky and messy, maybe because I didn’t measure the ingredients quite right, or maybe because the flour is not the right kind. The dough rises though, and I feel immeasurably proud of myself. I put the loaf in the oven and wait in the kitchen to keep an eye on it. The smell is right I tell myself, as the bread bakes in the orange glow of the oven lamp.

As we walk home from school after their first day back — my daughter excited and babbling and my son happy but tired and flushed — I tell them I prepared a treat for them.

‘It’s the bread my Grandad used to bake. He used to bake two loaves every week and when I stayed at their house, we’d have it for breakfast. And I used to love it. I used to have wonderful holidays at their house.’ I explain, and they look at me with great interest, catching a glimpse of that grandfather they never considered I might have had, revelling in being part of this elusive French family we hardly ever see. I can see how it takes them a little closer to their own grandparents, whom they love and miss. The bread tastes wonderful to them, just okay to me. It’s a bit stodgy and not as sweet as I remembered, but it’s satisfied a craving.

Attempt No.2

Today is a beautiful, sunny spring day. I found a new walk to do with the dog. Up to the next village, past several dairy farms and — idyllic discovery — there is a windmill! Bathed in sunshine on a perfect background of periwinkle blue sky, it looks absolutely glorious. Maybe I could take the kids for a picnic here one day. As the slightly distant tang of cow manure from the neighbouring fields hits my nostrils, I am transported back to my grandparents’ garden (there used to be cows and a cow shed in the field next door to them).

I have memories of hunting Easter eggs in that garden, that the bells had dropped on their way from Rome (no Easter Bunny in France I’m afraid, the bells deliver the goodies. I do love the idea of the bells though, dropping the chocolates as they fly and ring in the sky), my brothers and cousins chasing each other through the garden, squealing with joy. I remember the white bedding on the washing line, glowing in the sun, flapping in the spring breeze, and how I found an egg in one of the pillow cases that was hanging there.

This garden, if I recall it now, was nothing special, it was not huge; there was no Wendy house, no slide nor swings. It consisted mostly of a lawn that surrounded the house and a gravel driveway with a vegetable patch tended by my grandfather on the other side. But there was a wonderfully scented lilac tree there, which served the dual purpose of roundabout in our games of tag, and gateway to another world in our adventures on imaginary ponies. There was an old, disused water pump where a couple of swallows came to nest every year. There were roses too, climbing the front of the house, with which we made ‘perfume’ (I have often wondered if my grandmother ever felt upset that we ripped her beautiful roses off and shredded them, but if she did, she never let on). And dahlias, my grandmother had a whole border of them and I was fascinated by their pompom shape, the symmetry of their honeycomb structure and their bright colours. At the end of my stay with them in the summer, she would give me a huge bouquet of them to take home.

I’m sure it must have rained in that garden at some point, but I have no memories of it. Only of endless games in the sun with my cousin. My grandmother had a toy tea set, which she would take out for us, a fancy one, blue with gold edging. On occasions, she would give us some anise sweets that looked like garden peas and bacon, to put in the plates. Mine and my cousin’s eyes would shine with happiness as we scoffed them down, without even taking the time to play with them.

I’m giving the milk bread another go. I put some sugar in it to sweeten it, and I make the dough a little less wet, so it’s not so sticky. I work at it and knead until I feel quite tired, it’s hard work, and a strand of my hair keeps escaping from behind my ear, itching my face, so that I have to blow it out of the way every few seconds. Knead, knead, puff, knead, knead, knead, puff, puff...

When the children come home from school, they are so excited to hear that I’ve made milk bread again, and we chat happily as we munch through most of the loaf, only just about managing to keep a couple of slices for my husband. It still didn’t taste quite right, too sweet, although the texture is better.

Attempt No. 3

I have received an email from my cousin, Sophie. She tells me of her struggles after her father passed away a few months ago. She and her partner bought the house off him barely a year before, and what was a house full of potential, is now a house full of memories of her dead father and mother. It must be hard. She doesn’t let on much, she’s not so good at confiding in me anymore. Life has made strangers out of us. We used to be so close, spend all our holidays together, tell each other everything with that naïve trust that only children possess. We knew of each other’s troubles at home, and since they were so similar, we took it in our stride; that was what everybody went through we thought, and if in our games, our Barbie dolls often went through the wringer, we didn’t know any better, and anyway, they were always rescued just in time by a kind and valiant Ken.

I miss this closeness I had with her, I never had another friendship quite like it. We were full of silliness and games and when we were together, the sadness we sometimes felt at home dissipated, and whole new worlds opened to us. I remember, during my grandparents’ gold anniversary’s celebrations, while the grown-ups were all sat at the long table in the inn’s dining room, we went outside and played in the outbuildings. I think other children joined in, siblings most likely, we took them in, but it didn’t matter, it was just us really. And we were Nancy Drew and Bess investigating some exciting new mystery.

We spent many holidays at my grandparents’ house. I remember the wallpaper of the bedroom we shared, lots of stylised sixties-looking girls and boys in bright pink, blue and orange with little sausage dogs and flowers. It looked dated to us when we visited, but it would probably be fashionably vintage now. I must have spent hours staring at that wallpaper, 35 years on I feel like I could draw it still.

There was a large, dark double oak bed, which we shared, it was always cold up there, and we slept under a massive feather eiderdown. We used to have so much fun throwing it high in the air and letting it fall on us, the touch of the thick but soft cotton enveloping those feathers was like a cloud. We would talk and giggle late into the night, and sometimes my grandmother would have to come upstairs to tell us off and to go to sleep. We would giggle some more of course; I think I was the one who never could stop and got us into trouble, Sophie was always the good one.

There was also a looming, slightly imposing oak wardrobe, which I believe we were only brave enough to open once. It was full of spare linen, which was disappointing, but there were a few other things in there that were quite exciting, like lots of old magazines from the fifties and my grandmother’s real fox skin scarf — quite an imposing sight to an 8-year-old — which I can recall her wearing in church.

Did I mention I work from home when I’m not looking after two children, a busy husband, a dog and a psychotic cat? Anyway, I am trying to juggle work, house chores and missing my cousin. As usual, thinking of my grandparents and their house makes me crave milk bread. So why not raise the stakes, and throw a bit of baking into the equation? No sugar this time, just a bit of honey, and I don’t have quite enough time to proof the bread properly, it’s cold in the house today, and it’s just not rising, and I have a school run in 40 minutes. Maybe it will rise when it’s in the oven? Just chuck it in. Oh, and we could have a hot chocolate with it, the kids will love that, it is just so cold!! I stop the oven just before I leave the house. No time to look, dog on the lead whining at me, desperate to walk. Patting my pockets for my keys. I’m running late (again).

I pick up the kids from school and I smile at the look on their faces when I tell them there is some milk bread waiting for us. We more or less race home, which I do not recommend when you have a part-husky dog on the other end of the lead, she gets really excited, and she runs much faster than we can.

We get through the door and the kids shake off their backpacks, their shoes, their coats — I guess I’ll pick that up later then! — and rush to the kitchen, where they laugh and tell me about their day as I heat up some milk to make the hot chocolate. As I wait for it to get warm, I look into the oven for the first time. Wow. We are going to have to put butter and jam on that thing if we want to be able to eat it. It didn’t rise. It’s like a brick! Did I forget to put the yeast in? Or is it out of date? I pour the hot milk into our mugs, bring everything to the table, and profusely apologise to the kids for the mess that is Pépé’s milk bread today. They couldn’t care less. My daughter wisely tells me ‘you shouldn’t judge things by the way they look.’ Well sure, why not? I tell them:

‘Well, you’d best dunk it in the hot choc for a while, kids!’ And we start giggling.

Attempt No. 4

I have been avidly watching the Great British Bake Off on Netflix, catching up with all the series we didn’t see when we lived in France. I am developing quite the technique. I have been baking more, and my baguettes and pastries have improved greatly. As I watch Paul Hollywood passing comments on the bakers’ latest efforts, his light blue eyes remind me of my grandfather’s. I picture them blue, except I have a memory of my mother telling me they were grey.

I know so little of him in the end. Whilst I spent many hours at his house, it was always my grandmother who took care of us, played games with us, or cooked for us. There was affection I’m sure, but I was not close to him. My memories of my grandfather in those days are of him dozing off on the sofa in front of the lunchtime news, or of him tinkering in his workshop. I associate with him the smell of soap and sawdust. I can’t even picture him making his milk bread. He prepared them early in the morning, long before we were up, so that all I ever saw were the two loaf tins with a cloth over them as the dough proved.

My grandfather died of prostate cancer when I was a student. He'd had it before and went into remission for a few years, before it came back to claim him. I didn’t know much about him, and of his days in the war, he spoke very little. Yet I remember him as a soothing, benevolent presence in the house. The man who loved my grandmother so much, the man who had caused her to rebel against her well-to-do family and marry a modest farmer, and had spent his life making her happy. I have this slightly incongruous memory of them, quite old, quite close to the end of his days certainly; my grandmother was tall and strongly built, whilst my grandfather was short and slim, and I can still see him, teasingly grabbing her by the waist and reaching up to get a kiss from her, and my grandmother laughing, a little embarrassed. It struck me as very sweet at the time, but as the years have gone by, and I have had to navigate my own way through married life, I see how precious this display of affection truly was. How wonderful that they could still laugh together after all these years, and how modern of them to feel no reluctance to show their affection towards each other, when no one in their life had taught them to do that.

Apart from that vivid moment, what I remember of him mostly is his silence, his absence and his illness. But what I realise now, is that the feeling that pervaded in their house was peace. It was a safe haven. It was the place I walked eight miles to get to as a teenager, after a fight with my parents left me unable to cope at home. And I know that my grandfather was the man that brought that peace about. It is perhaps not surprising then that his milk bread means so much to me.

I apply all my newfound knowledge of baking into this milk bread. I knead it longer to release the gluten until it passes the ‘windowpane’ test. I make sure the temperature is ideal for proving, and I reduce the amount of butter slightly to help achieve an airier texture. After the first proof, I knock the air out and shape the loaf gently before placing it into the tin and in the oven for the second proving. When my daughter enters the kitchen, she sniffs the air and her eyes light up as she asks hopefully, ‘Have you made milk bread?’ I nod in confirmation and a smile illuminates her face. She runs out of the kitchen and shouts out at her brother upstairs:

‘Hey, Arthur! Mum is making milk bread!’

Thundering footsteps as my son comes running down.

Later, when we sit down to eat it, I know this is the best milk bread I have ever made. It is light and fluffy and slightly sweet, and it melts in our mouths. Probably deserving of a Paul Hollywood handshake, and yet it tastes nothing like my grandfather’s. Now that I think of it, his was so much denser, and slightly bland as he was on a low salt diet. Possibly, it was not a very good bread at all. I’m not sure whether to feel sad or not. Does it matter if I can’t recreate the taste? I look at my kids stuffing their faces and laughing, pulling faces at each other, and I realise it really doesn’t. What matters is what I’ve created with that bread. That happy, safe haven for my children and new memories that they will take with them as they grow older.