An ode to Mama Claud
When I'm at a party my little bum will always find a perch on the kitchen counter. I type this as my brain queues the 1978 Jona Lewie song “and you will always find me in the kitchen at parties”. There’s something very natural, nostalgic, maybe even comforting to me when I scooch the half empty cans out of the way and flick the stray beer bottle lids into the half empty pot of hummus. This hummus pot might have a ciggie butt in it, but it will be the sharp, ill-ripped rim of protective plastic still attached that makes my skin crawl. I have always been a decanter, a curator of snacks if you will. We eat with our eyes, they say.
Not even Princess Muck could carve out a kitchen counter throne to perch on at mum’s house. A bottom belonging to a borrower would even find it hard to find space on a surface in Claud’s kitchen. At our family get-togethers and my traditional boxing-day birthday knees up, the kitchen counters will be overflowing with trays of Jus-rol puff pastry party snacks (sweet and savoury obviously). On the hob will be pots of something spoonable. This is for the early birds who need their stomach's lining and the later birds who need something comforting and delicious to quell the sea sickness of that last negroni, which was undoubtedly free poured by someone unreliable. There is one side of the kitchen just to the right as you enter, that consists of (in running order) a calendar piled high with tiny boxes of trinkets and keys and, let’s be honest, tatt that you would find at the car boot or one of those old rickety junk shops in Hastings old town. A very noisy and leaky kettle. A pile of half-price crumpets thrice-bought (don’t want to run out), mince pies (from last christmas), Mr Kipling Battenburg slices (again probably adorned with a yellow and red CLEARANCE sticker), “ghoulish” mini-rolls (or whatever holiday shaped confectionery that’s available - i’m hoping to sample some bunny shaped Easter crumpets this year).
Even when we’re not entertaining, the kitchen table is mum’s office, or an operating table for rabbit castrations or tiny stitches in toes or heads. It’s the centre of almost 30 years of family dinners (always ending either in howling laughter or thunderous arguments). There have been inappropriate neighbours, tattoos, first kisses, last hugs, guitars being strung, songs being written, songs being sung (those sung beautifully - thank you Alex, thank you Dad… and those sung with enthusiasm - thankyou Georgie and every other drunk that graces Lucien Road. Pancake days (savoury then sweet). One funeral. A couple of death day parties. Barbecues. First birthdays. Extractions of contraceptive implants. The finest dancing atop the tables - if this table could talk it would have many tales.
When I was a teenager, me and a friend counted more than 50 pink items in this kitchen. And when I was 6, I used to hide my vegetables in the fruit basket. This woven basket was positioned to the left of me, Noah to the right. The fruit bowl was lined with luminous green plastic grass, and was a perfect camouflaged nest for my rejected broccoli. I would sneak down after dinner when Noah and I were supposedly brushing our teeth (never happened - hated it), and I would recover my discarded stinky soggy greens and chuck them in the bin - making extra care not to leave them exposed as the last thing binned - a wee shuffle around. Even to this day, if you want to make sure something actually goes to the landfill, you might have to bin it out of the house. You never know what the lady of the manor might take out of your bin as she rifles through them on a sunday night to ensure that ‘nothing important’ is thrown away. ‘Another man’s trash’ - a valuable lesson Mama Claud reminds us of everyday.
Dad would always have a pot of something on the hob. Usually soup - minestrone if we were lucky - or leek and potato - roquefort too if we’d just been to france. Or a bolognaise, chicken lime, lemon turmeric chicken. Assemble your own kofta kebabs. Or, my absolute favourite, Moroccan meatballs. The perfect blend of minced lamb, coriander, parsley, dried mint and cumin all rolled up into tiny little stars of deliciousness. Any time I plunge my hands into a bowl of raw meat I'm immediately back to being a child; squishing and scrunching and picking and rolling at the bowl of raw meat and making perfect little balls to sit in the tomatoey bath. Dad, with a tea towel flung over his shoulder, getting everyone excited about the process of making and eating and sharing.
Dad would also bleach the table every so often to get rid of the signs of debauchery - red wine rings and felt-tip overspill. We don’t bleach the table anymore but I think that’s ok. The scratches and marks are time stamps. Like rings in a tree trunk they tell us things. The dark rings, rather than telling us that the tree grew in the winter, reveal that we were drinking here in the winter. The scratches and pen marks show us the summers the baby boys were here growing and learning and having tantrums and making us laugh.
‘The hub of love’ - the site of many many late nights chatting and shouting and singing and laughing. Often these nights blend into one - a haze of dogs pretending to be humans and babies up way past their bedtimes.... But that's what makes them so special - they are constant, and reliable, and oh so special in their drunken deja-vu. Sprinkles of dust fall onto the table from the low hanging light - a small child has got a hold of it and the dusky pink glow is rocking us as if we’re on a boat. There are also all the moments in between. The quiet moments of roast chicken and pasta (don’t knock it till you’ve tried it) and lazy Wednesday night Taro for two.
I hope one day I can raise my own family, whatever that family might look like, around the heart of the house - the kitchen table. Inshallah I will still be sitting around my mama’s table with all of my bonkers family still. There is no place like it… And despite our disagreements on what Mum defines as “organised chaos’’ and I might find anxiety inducing clutter- there is no person's clutter that I'd rather be around. Again, as I type this my brain plays Mum’s current catch phrase “you’ll miss it when i’m gone”.
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On mothers day last week I posted 10 very gorgeous pictures of you to my instagram. I was bigging you up to the El Bras community and doing the classic ‘I have peng parents’ post (as distasteful, gloating, boastful or shallow as it is I can’t not because you are a legend). 10 images on a carousel just isn’t enough. Anyway, I thought you would be chuffed because the post got way more likes than I ever get unless it's one of me almost naked. Everyone thinks you’re mad and gorgeous and scary and clever (all the best things). Two days later I got a message from an instagram follower - Claudine D - saying “I want poetry not pictures''. So mama, here is your poetry. I love the kitchen table you and dad raised us around and I LOVE YOU. Happy birthday.