I don't have many souvenirs of my much-loved paternal grandmother. Just a finely wrought silver retractable pencil; the narrow fluted glass from which she drank her evening sherry; and a few photographs largely taken in the years around her marriage to my grandfather, and then again much later, when I got to know her as a surprisingly warm and emotionally generous woman behind her somewhat formal demeanour. I have memories of staying with her and my grandfather in their Stamford flat on a fairly regular basis, but perhaps I have spun out a few occasions into a whole universe of experiences together.
When I stayed with them, our time centred around walks down to the Meadows, or the kitchen. Grandma Davenport was a capable, if unimaginative, cook when tackling starters and main courses, but she came alive whenever the prospect of something sweet was on the cards. I remember a profusion of cakes, biscuits and puddings every time I was there, with something new seemingly always being placed down on the dining table. I recall the tap-tap-tap of the wooden spoon as she mix together flour, sugar, eggs, and her gentle guidance when cutting sponge pieces to make the wings of angel cakes. And I recollect her teaching me that to bake was not difficult or complicated, but that one simply had to work with the ingredients and let them do their magic.
All that was lost to me for years and years, for longer than I would like to remember, after she died and life became all grown-up and complicated. I mourned her, but had no way back into the experiences and joy that we shared; moments that remained always out of reach. Until this year. On a fine winter's morning, apropos of nothing, my father gave me her recipe book, all battered and torn from over use. I recognised it immediately, of course, and I could hardly believe that I held it there in my hands after all these years. I was back in that small kitchen, back there with my apron on, watching her bake with excited anticipation, and could once more taste the sweetness in the air.
I vowed that I would make her recipes, ideally one a week, and share it all with my young son, who is now of an age not only to help but to appreciate what we are doing together. Life did not work out that way, and it took many months before I was finally able to carefully sift through the pages until we found the first recipe we wanted to tackle. So here it is, my grandma's flapjack recipe:
