‘I’m trying,’ Esme replied. ‘I still cry. A lot. I miss you guys though.’ She reached out and took Helena’s hand.
‘We miss you too,’ Lola replied. ‘And your puddings.’
Esme tutted. ‘I know what you’re getting at and don’t worry, I made pavlova.’
‘Yay!’ everyone shouted and Esme giggled as she went to collect it from the kitchen. She missed her friends more than she could say. They’d always been there for her, celebrating every success and commiserating with every failure. They’d helped her sell her stuff when she moved into Leo’s. She’d had to let go of her beloved second-hand furniture because Leo insisted there wasn’t room for it and it didn’t go with the sleek, minimalist style he preferred. He wasn’t one for clutter and considering she could be so clean and organised in the kitchen, Esme was rather messy out of it. Esme hadn’t minded clearing out some of her old junk, being so in love and happy, but sometimes, when she was upset, she did miss the familiarity of those old worn knick-knacks.
Even though she offered for them to stay over, her friends all returned to London that night as they had work the next day. It was only an hour and a half’s drive and she couldn’t blame them. The spare room at the cottage hadn’t been cleaned yet and was so full of stuff you couldn’t actually move. The gang had all agreed a drive back to London was better than sleeping on the sofa in the freezing cold living room. As she waved them off, Esme felt tears sting her eyes. She hoped her friends hadn’t seen them; she didn’t want them to worry. But she wished she was in the car with them returning to the sights and sounds of the city she loved. It was so alive and vibrant, and Christmas time in the city was the best. A different sort of buzz lingered in the streets. One of joy and fun, rather than focus and concentration. But standing here in the middle of nowhere, in the darkness, the trees swaying in the wind, she felt very much alone.
That night, in the silence of the house, Esme snuggled in bed. Wrapped in three layers of clothes, she shut her eyes and tried to sleep. She hadn’t slept that well since returning home. Her bedroom at Mum and Dad’s felt too cramped and claustrophobic, and here, in the open fields, Esme missed the constant hum of traffic she had grown so used to. The silence of the countryside felt heavy and dense and she tossed and turned, hoping sleep would come. When it didn’t, Esme sat up and picked up her laptop from beside the bed. If sleep proved elusive, there was no time like the present to start her own blog. She clicked on some cooking blogs for inspiration and anticipation tingled through her body. She pored over images to use, giving just the right feel of cosiness and class. She didn’t want it to look anything like Felicity Fenchurch’s awful super-cute, twee blog that was all pink with giant pictures of her face looming out at you. Esme wanted hers to be about the food, and about love.
Before long, Grandma’s Kitchen was up and running. And as the sun came up and shone through her window, she closed the laptop, the battery out, and fell into a peaceful sleep.
*
Grandma’s Kitchen
Hi everybody, I thought I’d better begin my blog by introducing myself to you! My name’s Esme Kendrick and I love, love, LOVE cooking! Sorry for using big shouty letters but I do really love cooking! I’ve been working as a food technologist on some TV shows since I graduated university, but have always wanted to cook my own food and write about it, so that’s why I’ve started Grandma’s Kitchen.
It’s named after my lovely grandma who left me her ancient and amazing recipe book. It even has recipes from her mum and grandma in it, so it’s a real family heirloom. It means the world to me, and I hope that through sharing my successes and failures with you, you’ll enjoy trying out some new recipes and begin to love cooking as much as I do.
So what more can I tell you? My grandma, Pearl, was a brilliant cook and taught me everything I know. I think that, after discovering what a liability my mum was in the kitchen, she focused all her energy on me and my sister, Alice. Mum won’t mind me saying that – she’s an amazing mum, but she never really liked cooking and much prefers a takeaway or having dinner in the pub to slaving over a hot stove. One of my earliest memories is of Mum trying to cook a sausage casserole and it going so horribly wrong that Grandma had to step in. I remember she turned this burnt, crazily spiced mess into something delicious she called Cowboy Casserole. I’ll share the recipe with you later. You’re sure to love it!
I’ve just moved back to my hometown after my life took an unexpected change of direction. It’s been a bit of a knock, but you have to keep moving forward. My dad always says never go backwards, so I’m taking the plunge and starting this blog. The recipes you’ll find here will be family-friendly (my sister insisted! She said cooking different dinners for the adults and kids would drive her insane!) and are easy to follow with no weird ingredients. I can’t wait to share my first recipe with you soon!
*
After a couple of hours’ sleep, Esme awoke and went downstairs to write her first proper recipe for the blog. It was the first Monday she should have been at work and it felt strange to be her own boss and not have anywhere to go. Esme wrestled with a restlessness that filled her muscles with unspent energy as she flitted around the kitchen making herself a cup of tea.
So much had happened in such a short space of time. Less than a week ago her life had been ticking along as normal, her routine engrained in her mind and body. She could have walked to the tube station blindfolded and told you exactly what Leo would say in any given situation. She wondered what he was doing now. He’d have been to the gym and be at work already. Resisting the urge to cry, Esme clicked through her blog– her future – and sat back on the sofa, waiting for the number of hits to start pinging. Deep down, she knew this wasn’t going to happen, but couldn’t resist watching for half an hour anyway.
She picked up her grandma’s recipe book. The black leather cover was worn and frayed at the edges. The red ribbon she had inherited with it was beginning to fray as it forced numerous pieces of paper covered with scribbles and scrawlings back inside. She took off the band and opened it to leaf through its pages, examining each one and the delicate handwriting listing the recipes.
Affection and tenderness warmed her through. Her great-grandma’s fingers had touched these pages, as well as her grandma’s and her mum’s. Carol’s attempts at cooking from her youth were weirder and wilder, involving a lot of Seventies aspic-based recipes and random swearing. But her grandma had been an amazing cook and family legend had it that Esme’s great-grandma had been incredible too, creating exciting dishes even through rationing. This was why Esme loved cooking so much. It was history, their history. It meant her grandma who had helped her through so much, whose loss she had felt so deeply, would never be forgotten if her recipes were still being cooked, and the love that went into them still existed.
An old torn piece of paper fell from the side and she picked it up, turning it over in her fingers. It was a recipe for vanilla biscuits and in the margin, in a small, elegant hand, she could see the words, ‘Carol loves these’. Her grandma had written it and Esme smiled at the thought of her mum as a little girl, begging for biscuits just as she and Alice had done. She carefully placed it back inside and glanced again at the counter on her blog. It still registered zero hits. She checked the clock. It was now just after lunch and boredom gnawed at her brain. Esme made herself a bowl of cereal and sat back down on the sofa, still in her pyjamas, two jumpers and her favourite big, fluffy bed socks. Pulling one of the throws off the back of the seat, Esme tucked it around her as the cold of the cottage tried to seep into her bones.
Spooning soggy cornflakes into her mouth (she hated them all hard and crunchy), she opened the book to her favourite comfort food recipe. Just reading the words ‘orange tea bread’ made Esme’s mouth water. Maybe this could be her first recipe for the blog? After leafing through the book and scanning the index in her brain, Esme decided this was definitely the right one to begin with, and even though she’d made it so many times before, she wanted to test it one last time, just to make sure the measurements were