‘Come in Doris’.
The door creaked and opened slowly wide.
‘Are you back?
Come in and sit down.’
Smiles spread across the faces of those around the kitchen table. She always appeared at dinner time because we were all there. It was like she wanted to check whether the Yorkshire puddings were up to standard and whether the roast beef was incinerated. Her cabbage was a particular standard: had to be boiled for many an hour til the colour became pale and greyish, mashed with a large knob of Lurpak butter and a dusting of fine powdered pepper. And her gravy, browned with the burnt beef at the bottom of the roasting pan, thickened with onions and corn flour, was the flavour of Sundays.
Nana Doris had an open house at weekends. In the Autumn, the time I am writing this, she made the family a homemade meat and potato pie on Saturdays. Her short crust pastry, made with half lard and half butter topped the chunks of beef in gravy. On Sundays she cooked a full roast with Yorkshire puds. They were the starter eaten with dark beefy onion gravy; then the roast with crispy potatoes and veg followed by an apple pie and custard. That was the only thing she bought, the custard powder, everything else she cooked from fresh. Best of all though, she served it all with a bosom filled with love.
That’s why, when she visits now, always into the kitchen through the creaking door, we all say; ‘come in Doris’, for she is still with us; her love holding us as we love her still.
‘Come in Doris’.
The door creaked and opened slowly wide.
‘Are you back?
Come in and sit down.’ Though she never did!