It got me thinking about the amount of stuff the two kids brings home. I wondered whether they will ever remember any of it when they grow up? Doubtful, I suspect. I wonder if they have any concept at all of how my heart skips a beat every time they reward me with their tiny little amateur creations? Unlikely.
My thoughts drifted to my own childhood, as they do on a daily basis. The strongest memories I have from those days as a tot involve my mother – she is there at every turn, smiling and coaxing, scolding and hugging.
I sadly lost my Mum 6 years ago. I find myself pondering whether it is this loss which has sharpened the focus on those memories which involve her, or whether it is simply the passage of time that has made them so precious to me.
As I recall the days we spent baking together, I can almost smell the sweet cakey-ness of the kitchen. I would be there, standing on an old rickety chair (the Elf & Safety guys would have a hissy fit these days!) straining to reach the worktop. A tea-towel would be tied around me as a makeshift apron, and the Be-Ro recipe pamphlet would be propped open with a cake tin. I would be entrusted with the tin-greasing, and almost invariably a little bit of button-pressing on the Kenwood hand mixer, but that was probably it. And yet somehow my mother left me feeling that I had created these awesome sugar-filled treats all by myself. Proud and flour-coated, I would wash the ick from my hands and beg like a puppy for the mixing bowl.
And that, right there, is the sweet spot. THE best memory of all. A tiny little finger immersed in chocolate goop, scraping around the almost-empty dish, seeking out morsels of un-cooked cake mix. De-bloody-licious.
Perhaps one day when my boys are looking back at the memories of their old Mum, they too will say that their sweetest recollections are of Making with Mother.