Karen

Mixed Spice

I’m a child, no more than 5 years old, sat on an orange kitchen stool with paint peeling and kicking the wooden steps back and forth, enjoying the squeaking sound they make. I watch my mum get weighing scales and bowls from the cupboard and the excitement grows in my belly. I love helping her to bake. She holds the packet with me as I pour the flour into the scales and then sieve it into the bowl. I’ve got quite good at this. The sweetness of the mixed spice fills my mind and soul as my fingers carefully caress the mixture, creating breadcrumbs. I accidentally weigh out more dried fruit than is required and shovel the extra into my watering mouth.

I’m a mum. My girl, 3 years old, stands on a wooden chair to reach the clear plastic mixing bowl on the sparkling white kitchen island. Flour surrounds us. On the floor, our clothes, our faces. We smile at each other, full of love and promises. Adding the mixed spice evokes fond childhood memories for me. Both sniffing the air, we go “mmm” at the same time and laugh. Her hair is dangling over the bowl and I don’t care. We weigh out the mixed fruit, too much, and make extra little piles for both of us.

I’m a daughter. I carefully line an old celebrations tub with greaseproof paper and generously fill it with rock cakes. My daughter fetches her pram and dresses her dolly for the cold chill outside. We slide on our shoes and exit the front door, the celebrations tub rattling in the bottom of the pram. Twice, it falls out. We take the short walk, avoiding the puddles that have formed from the recent heavy rain. Knocking at the white door to the bungalow we wait until we hear a key turn in the lock. “Grandad, we made you something” my daughter says excitedly. Grandad takes the box and opens it, inhaling the sweetness of the mixed spice from the cakes. He is transported back to a happy time of fond memories before my parents went their separate ways. “Just the same as your mum used to make” he says, a distant look in his eyes. We go inside and sit on his patterned gold sofas, the TV quickly being changed to show CBeebies. “Tea?” he asks. I make it and we sit, drinking the tea, eating the rock cakes, and dreaming of days gone by.