Food writing competition - Winner

‘How many more, Mum?’
‘Keep going. No-one complains about too much food at a buffet.’
Sheila picked up a stack of Tupperware crammed with quiche, swept through the kitchen and disappeared down the hall. Liz sighed and plunged the knife back in to the margarine tub. The pile of white slices beside her was leaning dangerously. Bread and butter Jenga, she thought. She buttered one more slice and put the knife down. Wiping her hands on her jeans she turned to her sister, Megan.
‘What sandwich fillings have we got?’ she asked.
Megan pointed with her own knife towards the mountain of iceberg lettuce she’d been building. ‘I believe it’s ham, ham salad, and ham and cheese’.
‘What about the vegetarians?’
‘It’s only wafer thin ham.’
Liz laughed and threw a cocktail sausage at her sister, who caught it and threw it straight back. Dad would wheel out that joke every time their cousin Emily came for dinner. Everyone would groan and roll their eyes, but he made himself laugh, and that would make everyone else laugh too. She felt a pang of sadness punch at her chest. It took her breath away.
Sheila came back in to the kitchen and resumed her place at the kitchen counter. Liz hid the cocktail sausage in her hand and when her Mum wasn’t looking, lobbed it in to the bin.
‘Mum, please tell me there is something other than ham for these sandwiches?’
‘Of course there is. There’s egg.’
‘Well, I hope there are no vegans coming.’
‘For goodness sake Liz, I don’t have time to worry about vegans. I’m up to my elbows in tinned pineapple here.’
‘What about some hummus?’
Sheila slammed the tin opener on the counter and let out a heavy sigh.
‘Okay,’ Liz said softly, ‘why don’t you let me take over while you have five minutes. I think the leaning tower of Hovis is high enough, don’t you?’ She walked over and gently took the tin opener from her Mum’s closed hand. She took her other hand and pulled her towards the kitchen table. ‘Sit down, Mum. Meg will make you a cuppa.’
‘I’ve not finished with these tomatoes yet!’ said Meg.
Liz shot her a look and clenched her teeth. ‘Meg. Tea.’
‘Right, yes. Tea. I’ll put the kettle on.’
Liz picked up the tin her Mum had opened and drained the juice in to the sink. The sweet, tropical scent hit the back of her throat and instantly made her mouth water. Actually, you can keep your hummus, she thought. Give me cheese and pineapple on a stick all day long. She mercilessly skewered the little segments and lined them up, ready to meet their cheddar partners. A couple didn’t pass quality control in the way of appearance, so she popped them in her mouth. Chef’s privilege.
Sheila flung a tea towel over her shoulder and sat back in her chair. ‘Her over the road keeps bringing me casseroles,’ she said, pointing toward Number 22. ‘She means well, but there’s only so much beef and potato you can take in one week, and when you’ve got M&S five minutes away, there’s really no need.’ She leaned towards Liz. ‘Cut those a bit smaller, love.’
Liz muttered something under her breath. Sheila didn’t notice. ‘Do you know what I had for my dinner on Thursday night?’ she said. ‘Salmon fishcakes with asparagus, and a melt in the middle chocolate pud for dessert. I don’t have the heart to tell her. Still. Her Tupperware has come in handy for those quiches.’
Meg put a cup of tea in front of her and sat down. ‘Kind of her though, Mum,’ she said, putting her hand over Sheila’s.
‘Yes. It is.’ She smiled and took a sip. ‘Very kind.’ She took another sip and lifted her mug. ‘Your Dad always made a cup of tea in a crisis. A cup of tea works wonders.’
The room fell silent, and all three were still for a moment, each lost in their own thoughts.
‘Bloody hell Mum, the sausage rolls!’ Meg jumped from her seat, pushed the table away, and grabbed the tea towel from Sheila’s shoulder. She opened the oven and took a step back, turning her head to avoid the blast of hot air. The heat subsided, and she gingerly took hold of the tray that held twelve large piping hot sausage rolls. She prised them off with a spatula and transferred them to a chopping board on the kitchen table. Perfectly golden brown, the sausage mix oozed a little from the middle of each one. Meg batted back Liz’s hand.
‘Get back!’ she said, laughing, and flicked her with the tea towel. ‘You’re just like Dad.’
Liz had taken the roof off the top of her mouth many times with one of her Mum’s sausage rolls. The herby buttery smell was just too tempting. Despite the easy access to M&S, Sheila had insisted on making these from scratch. They were their Dad’s favourite, and a staple of their childhood. Every summer the four of them would pile in to a double-decker bus along with twenty or so other families, and head off to Barry Island for a day trip organised by their Dad’s working men’s club. On arrival, most of the men made a beeline to the nearest pub, not to be seen again until home time. But not their dad. He brought his own cans of lager and drank them on the beach. Collapsed in a deck chair, shoes and socks off, trousers rolled up. The girls loved him for it. Sausage rolls, sandwiches and pork pies appeared from empty ice cream tubs, all washed down with warm orange squash served in flimsy plastic cups. Liz closed her eyes and could almost feel the grit of the sand between her teeth, the squash coating her tongue with a sweet fuzz. Sitting on the bus heading home, crunching a stick of rock, the hit of pure sugar coupled with the threat of breaking a tooth was almost enough to take her mind off the burning sting radiating from her lobster red legs.
‘Mum, why didn’t you put sun cream on us when we were kids?’
Shelia shrugged. ‘Skin cancer wasn’t a thing back then.’
Meg stood over the sausage rolls, wafting them with a tea tray. ‘I’ve seen them do this on Bake Off. When their cake is fresh out of the oven and there’s only fifteen minutes left, and they still haven’t got their ganache on.’
‘Meg! They’re for the buffet!’ Sheila stood up to protest.
‘Come on, Mum, we’ve got enough to feed the five thousand here. I know what Dad would say,’ said Liz.
Sheila sat down again. ‘Oh, go on then. But just the one! I don’t want people saying there wasn’t enough food, thank you very much.’
The girls exchanged a look. Meg shook her head and began cutting. The crisp puff pastry cracked as she sliced each one in to smaller versions of themselves, golden flakes jumping from the knife, sprinkling the surface of the board. She handed them out on squares of kitchen roll. They ate them quickly, taking in short sharp breaths and fanning their mouths to cool the hot filling.
‘We always had these on Boxing Day, didn’t we, Mum?’ said Liz.
‘Always,’ Sheila nodded and smiled.
‘Do you remember that Christmas, when the dog got in the kitchen while we were playing charades? She stole the leftover ham and had it away down the garden before we could catch her!’
Meg let out a snort. ‘Dad was hopping mad! He’d spent hours caressing that ham. Boiling it, glazing it, roasting it. I remember watching him smother it with black treacle and sugar, and the smell of warm spice when he studded the cloves in to the diamond pattern he’d cut on top. Poor Dad. He had to pour himself a brandy for the shock. All he could say was “Why couldn’t she have taken the turkey-it’s as a dry as an old boot!”’
‘I’d been up since five cooking that turkey!’ said Sheila. ‘Cheeky sod.’ She looked down and swallowed hard. ‘I miss him.’ she said, her voice cracking, tears stinging her eyes.
Liz and Meg wrapped their arms around their Mother, feeling each other’s loss, holding on to each other’s pain. They stayed like that for a while, not wanting to let go. Not wanting to face the rest of the day.
Shelia looked at her watch and stood up. ‘Right. Come on, girls. We haven’t got all day.’ She dabbed her eyes with her handkerchief and brushed the flakes of pastry from her jumper. ‘Meg, we need serviettes. Liz, start filling those sandwiches. I haven’t even started on the trifle.’
‘We’re on it, Mum.’ said Liz, taking hold of Meg’s hand. ‘We’ll do him proud.’
Sheila held her head a little higher. ‘Too right, we will. Now,’ she said, looking around the kitchen. ‘Do you think we’ve done enough food?’