‘I’ll come over on Thursday,’ I say to Mum over the phone.
‘Great. What time?’
‘Around midday, when I finish teaching.’
‘I’ve got some artichokes. You like those.’
There’s no doubt about it. I like artichokes, especially the way my mum makes them – fried in olive oil, then finished with an egg or two. I can never bring myself to cook with that much oil at home, but I’m happy to sit down to such a treat at mums.
She’s worried about what else we might eat – she won’t have a chance to go shopping before then. I reassure her that she doesn’t need to cook. A bit of bread and cheese will do the trick. I just want to see her.
That morning before work, I ask my husband to rummage in the garden for produce. He comes back with a few leeks and some young celery. Along with a jar of homemade beetroot relish, I have at least something to contribute to my mother’s luncheon table.
After I finish work, I swing by a shop near mum’s house that sells salmon.
On a whim, I buy a whole salmon – it’s a fraction of the price per kilo of the filleted/ de-boned/ marinated variety. And so, I carry it, the celery and the leeks into mum’s kitchen, cradling my leafy, fishy stash like a baby.
Of course, she tells me off. Why do I have to bring anything? Doesn’t she have enough food to feed me? I should take the fish to my family. Why do I spend my hard-earned money on her?
It’s clear from the smells emanating from her kitchen that she has everything under control. A salad is ready. The chips are about to go on. The wild greens are nearly done. A hunk of homemade bread is sitting in a plate on the bench top. And the artichokes are sizzling away on the outside stove.
Still, I feel compelled to get that salmon on. And so, I forage in her garden for herbs. Chop up the leek. Slice the fish. Dig up some tomatoes from her fridge.
Very soon after, my mum, brother and I are sitting down at the table in her garden bungalow.
Two minutes later a neighbour arrives. And a few minutes later, another. They are offered a plate, a fork and a glass. They too take a seat at my mother’s generous table.
What is there not to love about this impromptu village feast?
Wow, what a beautiful lunch. I really love the bowl that the tomatoes are in.
Posted by: Jane Anderson | 29 October 2016 at 10:21 AM