Weekend visits to Nan’s, a canary-yellow tub of Stork in the fridge, hands in a cracked ceramic baking bowl – hers tobacco-stained and deformed, mine soft and still small, sisters as sous-chefs, the big brown Rayburn – warm bums, burnt fingertips, hot Welsh Cakes, melting butter, rounds of tea.
Welsh Cakes mean a lot to me. My nan definitely didn’t bake with local Welsh butter and sea salt, and my choice of cherries and almonds were replaced with the typical and delicious currants, but I’m pretty sure she’d still appreciate these. In fact, I’ll be baking her a fresh batch for her first visit, to go with her daily average of 20 mugs of PG tips