Very Tasty

"Nearly time for tea," I told my cousin Bill. "Mum's making meat and
potato pie."
"Mine's doing stew and dumplings," frowned Ken. "Only trouble is my
mum's dumplings turn out harder than this cricket ball."
Bill and me often wiled away the time, playing cricket on the spare
ground near our homes. We improvised with a makeshift bat, carving a
handle out of a thick strip of wood. It could stand up to any
bombardment.
We failed to understand, our mums being sisters, why their cooking and
baking didn't turn out the same. Aunt Nellie's pastry was so hard it
broke Uncle's false teeth. Bill envied me, because my mum's pasties
melted in your mouth.
Our mouths watered as the aroma of cooking filled the air.
"Smells good, anyway, Bill," I said, gripping my sturdy cricket bat
ready for Bill's delivery.
"Yeah - until you taste it," he moaned, flexing his arm, like an
England fast bowler before a delivery. The ball he used was made of
compressed cork and as hard as steel.
He shouted as he bounced towards the bowler's crease and let fly.
"Pity, I can't eat at your house with you and Aunt Hettie, Ken."
Bill could ball really fast. Once he hit me in the mouth with a
hundred mile an hour delivery. Though I laughed it off, I sported a
thick lip and swollen cheek for days. Mind you, I swung a mean bat,
knocking him to all four corners of the ground.

"There's something you're not telling me, Hettie," cried Bill's mum,
aunt Nellie, who looked enviously at the pastries mum had just taken
out of the oven and placed them on the kitchen table along with a batch
of others, cooling.
"The secret's in the kneading, Nellie, lass," said my mum, Bill's Aunt
Hettie. "I keep telling you that."
"Fiddlesticks."
Mum and Aunt Nellie were in fierce argument, as usual, about the
different outcome of their respective cooking. "I only knead in the
same fashion as you do, Hettie."
"Ah," said mum plonking her hand on her sister's cheek. "But then
there's the right body temperature. Feel."
Aunt Nellie flinched away from mum's cold hand. "Eee, lass - your
hand's like a block of ice."
"Aye," laughed mum. "Cold hands - warm heart. And perfect for kneading
dough, love. Your body, especially your hands, is too flaming hot,
that's your trouble."
"Take after me dad for that, Hettie. Like a furnace, he was."
"And I take after our mother, Nellie. Her side of the family were all
good bakers." She offered Auntie a freshly cooked bun. "Here - taste it
- the proof is in the eating."
Aunt Nellie didn't need to chew to know the bun would melt in her
mouth. She frowned and put it back on the plate. "Don't rub it in,
Hettie. Just cos you've got the knack."
"Oh, don't take on so, love," mum said, trying to appease her sister.
"It's just something we're born with. I mean you're good with a needle
and thread. I'm hopeless. And you can knit things. I can't."
Nellie wouldn't be said. "Fiddlesticks. You've left something out -
I'm not daft - some secret our mother passed onto you, the day she
died, about how to cook. And you're not telling. Just cos you're the
oldest."
"Oh, don't get ratty, Nellie, lass," tutted mum. "There's no secret -
just what I've told you about having the right body temperature. So
don't take on so. Only making things worse."
"Fiddlestick," Aunt Nellie said in a huff. "I'll find out what the
secret of good baking is - even if it kills me."
"Oh, Nellie love," consoled mum. "You're baking's not all that
bad."
"Huh," scoffed she. "Then why is it at Christmas parties at your home,
everything gets eaten? Plates are piled up. Christmas parties at my
home - every flaming thing gets left for the pigs?"
"Nellie, lass..."
"Never you mind, 'Nellie lass. Fed up of being shown up.'
She stormed out of mum's kitchen. Later, my mum went round to our Aunt
Nellie's home to see if she had calmed down. She got the shock of her
life. Not to mention the best laugh in her laugh. It was a hilarious
scene.
There was Aunt Nellie, in her underwear. Seated in front of the open
fridge, shivering, kneading a large bowl of dough. Aunt Nellie told mum
that she believed that this was the secret in getting the right body
temperature. Soon she would have tasty pastry like my mum.

After tea, Bill and me went back to the spare ground to continue our
game of cricket. Bill's first ball would have gone for a six, but as it
struck my bat the corky smashed into two pieces. Constant use had
weakened it over a period of time.
I thought the game was over. Bill looked at me and winked. He took
long strides away from the bowler's crease, pacing out a long approach
run. I readied myself at the batsman's crease. My cousin came at me
like a steamroller. The ball fly from his hand, and I'd never known him
ball so fast and accurate.
My adrenaline soared as I thought I might be bowled out. I half closed
my eyes, somewhat terrified, and struck out wildly. I opened my eyes
wide just in time to see my effort going over the boundary for four
runs.
Hands on hips, Bill grinned. "Well, at least my mum's rock cakes are
good for something, Ken."
I agreed and ran to retrieve the 'ball', which was still in tact and
good for a few more overs. The beauty of it was that, when the cookie
finally crumbled, we knew where to get an unlimited supply - from Aunt
Nellie's kitchen.