Poem written 10 September 2020

The smell of toast cooking

Stewed apples

A voice on the radio humming in the background 

Grandma taking her pills

Grandad reading the paper 

The spreads on the lazy Susan swirling around the table

A choice between cereal 

Toast

Or both 

With stewed apples and yogurt – 

Of course

Sun streaming in through the blinds 

The kitchen so warm and inviting you can taste it

Grandmas stewed apples 

Sweet and divine with the perfect tang

Goes well with a big dollop of yogurt and

Crunchy cornflakes

A combination of breakfast textures unmatched 

Plates, bowls, cups, all matching

The marmite falls off the lazy Susan for all of my energetic swivelling 

Breakfast at grandma and grandads 

Has always been the best.

Dad gave me a bag of homegrown apples yesterday, from the trees in our front yard that once were small, a whole bag of apples! I decided to stew some of them to have with breakfast, and as I was coring and slicing them I was vividly reminded of breakfast at my grandparents when I was growing up. Breakfast at Grandma and Grandad’s house is such a warm memory, so warm that I actually had written a piece of poetry about it last September. I come from a weetbix and milk household (let the record show I am not complaining about this, I had a mean weetbix card collection!), so the spread that my Grandparents put on for my family when we stayed with them was incredible. I was transported back to this moment in a dream last September, and when I woke from the dream in the middle of the night I wrote the poem immediately to hang onto every last sensation of it. Currently I am sitting at the kitchen bench in my flat with the scent of stewing apples billowing throughout the kitchen, memories of the sunniest and loveliest mornings hanging in the air with sticky sweetness.

Grandad was an avid gardener and he loved his apple trees, always coming up with new strategies to keep the birds from pecking at his prized fruit. My childhood was filled with Grandad chuckling each time he retold the joke,

“What’s worse than finding a worm in your apple?”

“Nothing,” I’d say, “that’s bad enough!”

“Finding half a worm…!” He would grin at me, while I grimaced at the thought of biting into an apple and getting more than I’d bargained for, watching half a wriggly worm signalling to me I’d eaten the other half.

I miss my Grandad, he was a good man with a great sense of humour. Tonight I feel grateful to have homegrown apples that I can stew in my kitchen, myself stewing in the memories of laughter and fun had in my grandparents kitchen. I am grateful for my Grandma, who if I am correct, is the wonderful woman behind the stewed apples and excellent breakfast spreads in the first place. While making the stewed apples I used touch and smell to engage and delight in my memory of these mornings. I look forward to breakfast tomorrow, tasting it again.