This month’s column is about nostalgia, apple crumble and my beloved Nan.

Each time I watch my Nan make her apple crumble, it’s a kind of culinary ballet. A quiet performance of precision, technique, and vague frustration when the rolling pin mysteriously disappears.

Recently, I sat in her kitchen and watched her craft the dessert, a recipe she'd likely inherited from her nan, probably back to a time when apples were mainly used to clobber peasants on the head.

Nan doesn't measure, doesn't even glance at the measurements in her handwritten recipe (a recipe I asked for once, and she responded by listing, vaguely, ‘some butter, some flour, and, you know, a bit of sugar’).

Instead, she tosses ingredients around with the confidence of someone who’s made this a thousand times and never once burned it - at least not enough to admit to it. It’s calming and nostalgic for me to watch her cook.

As a kid, watching Nan make crumble was fascinating; she had this brisk, no-nonsense rhythm, flinging ingredients into the bowl like a seasoned pro.

Now, as an adult, I watch her roll the dough with a little less gusto, her hands more cautious but still expertly rubbing flour and butter together.

I realise she’s still Nan, but she’s Nan who’s lived a bit longer, and I find myself worrying, wondering, ‘How many more crumbles will I get to watch her make?’

So, as we sit together, I savour the crumble with more care, listening to Nan’s stories with a little more attention.

Crumble is simple and comforting. It’s a little lumpy, like life, with all its sweet and bitter moments mixed in together – but I am grateful for every last bite.

In Her Kitchen

I see her, the grey granite countertop resembles

A frosted pavement. Consecrated to her cookery. Hunched, bent

At the waist, leaning over the Earthenware bowl. Partly from concentration,

Mostly from degradation of her exerted body. Rosy face,

Chipped rim and a crooked smile, a routine scene in our house.

I am soothed by it only for an instant, then disquieted as my

Eyes discern. The familiarity of her fingers as they

Rub cold butter cubes into the flour, the oily fat a balm for her

Dry, diligent hands. The fluorescence of the light brings her

Wrinkles and furrows into sharp focus. The senescence

Writ large, my heart aches. So many times, I have watched

These hands create, and now I see the arthritic shakes

As she lifts the heavy crock with a gratified but weary sigh.

The stewed apples are tombed; the crumble topping

Falls gently, plenty of sugar. To be shared with hungry mouths.

This dish, humble, as she is. I wonder how many more of these

Moments I will be blessed to share with her. Pulling up a chair to lean on,

She observes me and opines “You look a bit down, dear”. I don’t dispute this,

Only close my eyes, breathe in the familiar scent of cooked fruit.

Thinking only of my acute and absolute despair at the concept

Of living, without her.