The gift of taking joy in eating and cooking is one of the best things you can give a child.  Encouraging the natural curiosity and urge to touch, smell and take pleasure in food is a gift that will be lifelong.  The power and beauty in a healthy understanding of where food comes from and how it sustains our bodies and hearts cannot be underestimated.

My childhood memories seem to almost invariably revolve around food. In one of the first that comes to mind I’m lying on my back in my grandparents’ backyard, the scent of mint and lemons and grass swirling on the gentle wind.  I’m about 7, tanned brown and skinny, the sun warming my face and the  grass tickles my legs. One hand holds a book, the other is reaching for strawberries just picked from the garden, sweet, ruby red, all different shapes and textures, some firmer and some almost jammy from the sun, dribbling their juices. Time stands still until the strawberries are gone and the spell is broken.

My grandfather has hidden some berries from my ever-reaching grasp and he sneaks them into the house with some herbs and lemons.  A row of sterilised jars, saved from peanut butter and tomato paste, are lined up on the kitchen bench. My grandmother works magic and the jars are filled with spoonfuls of deliciously lumpy, sweet yet tart, rich jam.  I could eat it straight from the spoon and I do.

Later, my grandmother and I make donughts, all hands in as we talk as if we are old friends with 50 years between visits, instead of grandmother and granddaughter who talk to each other every day.  There’s an index card with my grandmother’s handwriting, not perfectly formed slightly forced letters as in my grandfather’s hand, written with a ruler underneath to keep it neat, but letters tumbling over each other in their rush to hit the page.  Rough quantities and shorthand instructions.  It is there in front of us but we work from memory and our senses.

The dough rests and rises, rests and rises, rests and rises.  We chat, slower now, my grandmother has tea in a pretty china cup and I have a tall glass of cadbury drinking chocolate, way too much chocolate powder for the milk, thick bumpy chocolate floats on top.  My mother would be horrified to see the amount of chocolate, my grandmother doesn’t agree with the instructions on the back of the box, adding more and more and when she turns I add another spoonful still.  My grandfather comes in from the garden and laughs at the chocolate on the end of my nose.  He gently teases my grandmother and tells her that I’m going to be spoiled rotten.

The jam is injected into the doughnuts and they land in the hot oil, sizzling and turning golden.  I have to stand back for this part.  My grandmother is scared I will be spattered by the oil and she is wearing a flowered apron.  She scoops them out and drains the doughnuts on thick paper towel, dusts them generously in cinnamon and sugar and they’re left to cool.  The air smells warm and sweet and we can barely wait. My grandfather tells us to be careful.  He suggests that we wait until after dinner to eat them.  My grandmother and I wait till he goes back outside and we bite into the golden fluffy softness, bubbly hot jam squirting out, running like lava down our chins.   The rest are arranged with pride onto delicately patterned china and are shared, warm with the rest of the family and friends.  They taste wonderful but none so perfect as the very first one, stolen and hot with anticipation.

My grandparents’ backyard is not huge but the bounty that comes from it, changing with the seasons, is massive.  My grandfather tends to it with pride, long ears of corn in green silk, cherry tomatoes heavy with sweetness on vines running up plastic ladders, peas that are popped into the mouth straight from their shells, purple garlic, lemons, chillis, the fragrant green of parsley, chives, mint, basil and coriander, strawberries and more besides.

I taste everything, fresh and light.  I love the zing of the chilli and the sweetness of the peas.  At my grandparents’ house it is my job to shell the peas and they are popped straight into my mouth, they never make it into the bowl.  I’m reminded not to be greedy and to save some for everybody else. The peas I’m served at my friends’ houses come to the plate from boxes in the freezer, via the microwave and they are hard and wrinkled and almost grey.  The flavour is muddy, I can’t tell the difference between the taste of the peas and the overcooked limp broccoli that must have died before I was born.   I follow my friend’s lead and move the vegetables around on the plate and drop peas off my fork onto the floor.  Her mother sighs and implores us to eat at least 10 peas each or there’s no icecream.  I wonder how these peas relate to the ones I eat with joy.

It is now 20 years later and my husband and I fight over who gets the last spoonful of the jam my grandmother still makes with love for the whole family. It is spread thickly on the bread we make at home and split to share with my grandparents. My grandfather has Alzheimer’s disease now and time is slipping away, but he never forgets to give me little red netted bags of fragrant fresh purple garlic and handfuls of tomatoes from the garden.

The memories and lessons I learned in my grandmother’s kitchen will stay with me for ever.  We use our sense of smell and touch and taste to cook and tell when something is done.  Our hands are soiled with flour or cocoa or egg wash and the timer has no place here.    I learn how the texture changes as food cooks and how a change in the food’s fragrance will signal that it is ready.  I learn how to cook and eat with my heart and all of my senses, not for sustenance alone but for pleasure.

To my grandparents I owe everything - my love of food and pleasure and the extra few kilos on my hips.  Thank you from the bottom of my heart and the pit of my stomach.