Special Ingredient

Granddad was an OK cook. I think at some point the cooking duties were shared more fully and I recall Mum telling me about the fluffy Victoria sponges Gran used to make. Somewhere along the way Gran withdrew. She withdrew in a way that I could never quite square. The way she was crept up on everyone. She became larger than life and yet she became less than she was. She wasn’t quite herself and she didn’t do some of the things she used to do. 

As it is in many families and in particular marriages, the spaces left by one party were filled by the others. When the spaces are left open, things start falling through them and before you know it there isn’t enough left to keep a relationship going. I think I always knew this, but somewhere in our growth stages there’s a crappy reset that pushes the font of wisdom you’ve already gleaned to the back of a drawer. We all have an age of ignorance and maybe this is necessary for us to strike out into the world and make our mark. After all, ignorance is bliss.

My Granddad did not bake often. He cooked, but baking was a luxury, more of time indulged than of monetary expense. I think most of his baking was an opportunity to spend time with me and gain some gentle respite from the increasingly louder lady who filled the living room until it threatened to burst. They were both going deaf. A selective deafness that I was in no doubt would land me in trouble were I to say something cheeky or similarly untoward. They were warm and smiling people, but there was a hardness there that had to be respected. I had no trouble respecting them because that was what my love demanded. There was a truth about those two that shone through and learning about them as I grew older only served to deepen my love and understanding of them both. 

My Gran and Granddad had been forged in the red hot coals of war. When I learnt about how the Second World War had affected people I was young and vainglorious and mistakenly thought the hard bit was on the front. Fighting was where it was all at. I did not see that everyone fights in a war and that to stay home was in some respects far harder than going out and doing the conspicuous part. Strength is required when it comes to the matter of keeping a family and a home together come what may. This strength is not hidden away, instead we choose to overlook it and downplay it, which is silly really. Sometimes our priorities and our perspective gang up on us and lie and lie until we’re bamboozled into a course of action that will never end well. I say sometimes. It happens a lot.

I would have remembered that day regardless. Mythical and legendary qualities were brought to bear. There was a mist that the autumnal sun slowly simmered away and that sun was in a really good mood. The quality of its light told you what you needed to know about the sun’s mood and it also whispered in your ear that today was going to be a good day. I have always loved days like that.

Spending time with my Granddad was the very best thing in the world for me. That time was always a treat and I never took it for granted. Granddad was an important man, and not just because he fought in the war. Like any child I watched him intently. Now, as I am older, I marvel at how children do that. They never betray what they are actually up to, whereas there are plenty of adults who give themselves away with an inappropriate stare. This is something else that we lose somewhere along the way. Something that we should relearn and do, but seldom bother with. Listening is so underrated.

My innocent and uncluttered impression of Granddad was that he was quiet and thoughtful. I understood that this was a good way to be but that it was difficult to emulate, especially for a boisterous young lad. There is however, a price that must be paid if you want the best of time with someone you care about and I quickly learnt to be calm and still around this man. In return, he not only gave me his time, he spoke to me. My Granddad talked to me more than he talked to anyone and everyone else. I did not appreciate this until I was a grown man and my Mum told me how much she wanted him to open up and talk to her. I felt guilty about that. I felt like I took something from her. 

Now I look back at my time with Granddad and I think what made it all work was timing. Timing is everything. The way Gran was changing put an immense strain on Granddad. I never saw that. I was too busy enjoying my time with him. I think maybe he missed Gran even though she was right there. Missed her as she receded from the world and the connection they had became brittle and then broke away piece by piece. Dementia is a terrible disease and it takes its toll on everyone. It is a memory thief and memories are our most prized possessions. Memories remind us of who we are. In the end, memories are who we are.

I was someone to talk to and Granddad talked to me about his memories. I’m sure he carried right on talking to Gran about them too. I like to think reiterating them to me helped, that my hanging on his every word reminded him of how important those memories were. How important he was.

On the day in question, we were making a pie. I was a teenager by then, no longer a little boy, but we had these habits and routines and they suited us both well. Today it was apple pie. It wasn’t always apple pie, but the pies we made were always sweet. There may have been a hint of blackmail in the first pies. A small child is more likely to devote their efforts towards the rewards of a sweet pie accompanied by ice cream or custard. Never cream. My Grandparents weren’t big on cream and they bought sterilized milk in the odd shaped bottles with metal tops. That stuff tasted odd, especially on cereal. I never complained, but it was never going to be something I was going to nostalgically replicate. That was a bridge too far, however much I loved those two.

“Are we going to have mash?” I asked Granddad as I rolled the pastry out.

“Just mash?” he asked me. Granddad was mischievous, his humour was what is referred to as dry. He was not a ho-ho-hoing ruddy faced beast, there was more reserve there. He was funny all the same though and when he was in full comedic flight, he was a joy to behold.

“I like mash,” I told him. I didn’t tell him I liked his mash in particular. That was part of the rules of engagement that I had picked up as I grew up around him. To say that I liked his mash would have missed the target entirely. Ill-conceived and misjudged. He knew I liked his mash the best in all the world, so there was no need to say it. I know this is contrary to relationship advice and that we fail so badly to give credit where its due and that we take so much for granted, but trust me, in this case, it all worked incredibly well and I have no regrets when it comes to my feelings for Granddad’s mash. 

Every time I eat mash potato I think about my Granddad. It is not the only time I think of him, but without fail, mash potato prompts thoughts of that magical man. He made mash with a fork. A simple and effect approach. Whipping the potatoes into a fluffy consistency with plenty of elbow grease. Add butter part way through and a splash of milk and you have the makings of the best mash you will ever taste. To take something like this with you into the rest of your life is one of the best gifts ever. We all have to eat and to eat well whilst thinking of someone special is up there with the best things in life. Mash potato is quite frankly, the glue of my life. 

“Mash it is then,” he stopped stirring the cooking apples on the hob and came over to me, “you need more flour.”

Never once did Granddad intrude, overstep the mark, take over or cross the many lines we have, some of which we lay as traps so we can test someone and pick a fight. As soon as he said about the flour, I knew what he meant and I carefully lifted the pastry and sprinkled flour on the work surface. The pastry was about to start sticking. Not quite there yet, but not far off. Like all old people he knew things. How he knew, I do not know. I sometimes worried that he knew far more about me than I knew about myself. Now, as I look back I am positive of it and I’m fine with that. Always was. 

Granddad was always gentle, whether that was with his instruction and advice or in any other aspect of our lives together. To me, he is the very definition of a gentleman. There is a distinction betwixt gentle and soft. He was far from soft. He was a hard man and not to be trifled with, but he was measured and in control. You see this quality in well trained dogs and that is why dogs are a joy to spend time with. They are joyful killing machines who temper their nature because they love their owner. There is much to be learnt from this. I am learning still.

As the construction of the apple pie progressed we reached the point where the pastry was to be placed in the dish. Now, I could do this, but nowhere near as well as my Granddad could. I am sure I had the desire to show off and take on the task so he could see how well I could do it, but this was trumped by the delight of watching an artist in motion. The way he took to a task like this was magical. I can do mash and I truly believe my mash is the equal to his, the proof in that is the tasting, but however hard I try I can never create a masterpiece of pastry to rival his. 

“Can you get the spice from the pantry,” he asked me as he was finishing up. He didn’t ask this until he was almost done. I think he knew I would not budge until I had seen him work his magic. I’m sure we negotiated our way to this point, but I don’t remember pleading with him to stay and promising to complete the allotted task directly afterwards.

By then, I knew what I needed to collect from the pantry and that I had some lee-way with the choice of spices we could add to the apple pie. As I walked over to the door to the pantry I was considering a wild card. Something like black pepper or a bay leaf. Granddad always got my humour and I his. I never worried that he’d berate me for bringing the wrong thing. He gave me time, space and the benefit of the doubt. That is rare and a very difficult thing to bring yourself to give anyone.

The pantry was a large cupboard. Nothing grand. Pantries were pretty common back then. Kitchens were basic and the room was laid out differently. I opened the door, not bothering with the light switch that lay beside the doorframe. I knew where the spices were and I would see well enough by the light of that happy sun. 

And I did see well enough, but the spices were not what took my eye. My eyes were pointed where they needed to be, but they dropped in the instant that I opened that door. They dropped to the item that I had never before seen in this pantry. This was an item that did not belong and it was all I could do not to cry out. In the company of any other human being I think I would have cried out and that sound would have been the prelude to a complete and utter hullabaloo. I would fallen apart right there and then. But I was with my Granddad and my time with Granddad was always special.

Often is the time that I wonder why I chose the course of action that I did. There is something farcical about my actions. I have since seen comedy shows deploy these actions and it always garners plenty of laughs. 

I leant over without stepping into the pantry and I retrieved the necessary spices. Cinnamon being the banker. Abandoning any cheeky addition, I did as I had been instructed and I closed the door on the pantry.

My hands were not shaking as I placed the jars of spice on the worktop and I even managed a smile when Granddad spoke.

“No black pepper or vinegar this time then?” he asked me.

“Thought I’d save them for next time,” I told him.

Once Granddad had added the spice to the hot apples I took the jars back to the pantry and put them exactly where they should be. Granddad was ordered, neat and tidy and I picked that baton up effortlessly. It always made sense to me to be this way. Granddad always made sense to me.

That was why the item in the pantry had shocked me and shocked me in such an odd way. I wasn’t exactly pretending. Even now, I don’t think it was a simple case of pretending it wasn’t happening. There was far more to it than that. More even than denial. Although, I did not want to hear Granddad talk of the item in the pantry. I never wanted the item and my Granddad to collide because I knew my world would shatter and I don’t think I would have ever recovered from that. 

Granddad was my hero and I made sure that he stayed that way. That was what I did in that moment. Besides, I don’t think it was Granddad and that makes it all the more harder to believe. Somehow, I knew. 

Gran was away with the fairies by then. But not all the time. She had this faulty switch that thankfully only clicked across to the other setting occasionally, but when it did she was a totally different person. And that person was terrifying.

I don’t know how Granddad coped, but in the end, when he lost her to that evil disease he stopped coping and he stopped living. Gran was all he ever lived for and I don’t resent him leaving me when he lost her. I think I always knew the deal and I was always up on it.

The very next time I visited my Grandparents I was in two minds as to whether I should open that pantry door. I couldn’t not though. I had to know. 

That door was the most challenging and difficult door I have ever had to open. I fought a battle just to be stood there and then I had to fight another battle in order to get that door open. I was cowardly throughout and so I pulled that door open ever so slowly and I blinked long blinks with long pauses before I reopened my eyes. The effect was a strange strobing as the door revealed its secret.

Which was an absence of the item and the biggest secret of my life. 

I pushed the door shut and stumbled to the kitchen sink, grabbing the edge of the worktop for support as my heart hammered, my breath came in ragged gasps and my head span. I thought I was going to puke in that kitchen sink, but somehow I pulled myself together, and as I looked out of the kitchen window I saw a freshly dug patch of earth and then I knew where the item in the pantry had gone.

“You alright, Sam?” asked Granddad from behind me.

“Yeah,” I said, a little white lie to keep the world turning, “just admiring your new tree.”

“Ah!” said my Granddad, “yes I planted that on Monday.”

The day after my visit to catch up on the week and make apple pie.

“What kind of tree is it?” I asked.

“A weeping willow,” he told me, “I’ve always had a soft spot for weeping willows.”

“It’s nice,” I told him, turning to smile at him, “I like it.”

And I do like it. I see it every morning as I rinse my coffee cup. You see, when Granddad passed he left me that tree and the house that looks out over it. He left me the house, much to my siblings chagrin. They can’t understand why he would have done that. But I do. I know exactly why he left me the house and it’s our secret, a secret of a grave that I will take to my grave.