The taste of summer
Up until I was 8 years old my grandparents lived on a small holding in a black and white farmhouse tucked away miles from anywhere in the Welsh hills. It was a winding drive up a narrow mile long road from the nearest shop and pub. Remote, wild and stunningly beautiful. We didn’t ever get to go on ‘proper’ holidays but we used to visit them each summer and enjoy this very different ‘life in the country’ for a few weeks. Even though I was only eight and my sister six we were allowed to roam freely in the fields and woods, we probably didn’t go too far but to us each day was an adventure to behold. The sheep and cows became our companions, their moo’s and baa’s a musical score to our summers.
My grandparents were keen gardeners and kept an immaculate, bountiful vegetable garden at the side of the house. I remember one summer the strawberry patch giving such a bumper crop that we got to the stage of saying at teatime ‘oh no, not strawberries again!’. The chest freezer was full of them and Grandma couldn’t keep up with making jam.
My Grandma was a fantastic cook. She would home make absolutely everything including bread. There wasn’t anything that Grandma couldn’t bake or make so mealtimes were always amazing. She cooked and baked with love and infused everything she made.
Her bible was Delia Smith’s Complete Cookery Course, the one with the black cover in three volumes. Grandma’s reply to any ‘mmmm’ or ‘this is lovely’ comment was always ‘it’s a Delia’.
I’m sure it did rain in the 80’s but I don’t remember it. I just remember long hot summers, days and days of warmth and sunshine. One particular day I remember walking into the kitchen my forehead damp with sweat and being hit by the zesty sharp scent of lemons. Grandma would smile with her twinkly eyes while cutting up lemons and spooning oodles of sugar into a blender. We knew what was coming and waited patiently to be handed a small glass of nectar; the most delicious cold sweet and sharp lemonade you’ve every tasted. I can still taste it now. Each year we visited we’d beg her to make lemonade, for me it was the smell and taste of summer all encapsulated in a little glass.
I’ve since made it as a grown up, of course using the same Delia recipe to the letter. But it somehow it doesn’t smell or taste the same as Grandma’s. She obviously did something special that wasn’t in the recipe, or maybe it was just tasted better because SHE made it. I do miss her.
