Yorkshire Puddings

“Ah you’re back. See anyone?” she shut the oven door, the steam making my eyes water, while in the background I could hear my sisters, aged eight and nine, arguing upstairs about whose doll should be mum. At twelve mum expected me to help out as she worked full time now, so I was responsible for getting the dinner every day after school. But this was Sunday.

“Yeh, mum, church was full,” she didn’t laugh. “Saw Eileen. She said you ought to pop round some time, said she’s always in, looking after Joe.”

There was a time when we went to Church as a family. But now it was only me. Dad dropped me off, along with two elderly ladies he’d been taking for years. His good deed!

I put my white, school apron on over my dress- burgundy, velvet, knee length, Sunday best. I would have changed to do the cooking, but Dad wouldn’t hear of it.

“Where’s my bowl,” I rummaged through pyrex dishes in the cupboard .

“In the fridge. I made some apple sauce for the pork.”

“Mum…” I sighed. I transferred the apple sauce to another bowl and cleaned the one I wanted. I didn’t understand why mum used it, knowing it was my favourite.

This was my job, on Sundays, making the Yorkshire pudding batter. We all loved them, and it didn’t matter what meat we were having — beef, chicken, pork — we had to have Yorkshires. Working in the kitchen with mum, was one of the few times I enjoyed being with her, one of the only times things felt more normal between us. My sisters never bothered us, unless they wanted a drink or snacks.

“Do you remember, mum, that time I went to the twins house for Sunday lunch and they had chicken but no Yorkshires?” Susan and Mary were my best friends. Sadly I’ve lost touch with them over the years.

Two tablespoons, no need to be exact, of flour in the bowl. The scales we had got broken the year before and weren’t replaced. Add a large pinch of salt to the flour.

“Yea, you were shocked to discover that not everyone was like us. Come on, get on with it, don’t forget we’re going to your aunt’s this afternoon.” She basted the potatoes with some fat from the meat. My mouth watered and my stomach savoured the taste to come.

Making a hole in the centre of the flour I cracked in two eggs, added a small amount of milk and water and whisked. The recipe said one egg, but aunty Kitty, who was also my Godmother, said she’d read in the Reader’s Digest that two eggs were better. A minute’s whisking and mixture is creamy. A little more milk and water, continue for four minutes to make sure it’s airy, then leave to stand for half an hour.

“Mum, why’re we going to Kitty’s?” Mum’s sister had four small children — who I babysat for occasionally- eldest seven, youngest two. Mum didn’t like to visit often because of the children, so there had to be another reason.

“They’re moving up North with Dick’s work.”

“Oh, really?” My legs wabbled. I was filled with equal amounts of joy and sorrow. Dick would be gone. What relief.

My Yorkshire puddings rose beautifully that day.