Dear Mum,
Growing up, your kitchen was warm and busy.
Just like you. Cream cakes, pies, jam tarts.
You always baked from scratch.
Wiping floury hands on your pinny, in October 1978, you, then 36, handed me a wooden spoon.
‘Stir it, Ali!’ you grinned, placing down a bowl of sticky brown dough.
I was 5, and it was the first time I helped make your famous Christmas cake.
Dried cherries, sultanas, orange zest and splashes of lemon juice and brandy.
Delicious.
Afterwards, we smothered marzipan and icing on top.
‘Your best yet,’ my dad, Michael, then 39, grinned on Christmas Day.
My sister Helen, then 12, and brother Martyn, 10, thought so, too.
Baking it together became our festive tradition. Year after year.
When I married Angelo in October…