One More Spoon of Sugar

This morning was Granny Margaret’s funeral. She was eighty-four. She was ill with heart disease for many years, and last week she died in hospital, with Mum next to her.

After the church service, we put flowers on her grave. Then the family went back to her house in Whitby and stood in her small yellow kitchen. Nobody knew what to say. Her blue apron was still on the back of the door.

Mum opened the drawer next to the cooker to look for teaspoons. Instead, she found an old notebook with a brown cover. On the first page, in Granny’s round handwriting, it said “Margaret’s Recipes, 1961.”

We sat at the table and turned the pages together. There were recipes for soup, apple pie and the lemon cake she made every Christmas. Next to some of them were little notes in Granny’s writing: “Too much salt!” “Better with cream.” “Never again.” Mum laughed for the first time all day.

Near the end, I found a page with my name on it: “Freya’s scones. Add one more spoon of sugar. Don’t tell her mum!”

Mum read it over my shoulder. “So that’s why her scones always tasted better than mine,” she said. Then she cried a little, and so did I.

That evening, we made the scones in Granny’s oven. When I added one more spoon of sugar, Mum watched me, but she didn’t say anything.

They tasted just like hers.