My mother was over for a visit last week, and she asked what was coming up in the magazine. I told her it was our food issue. She looked at me suspiciously and said, "Haven't you already done one of these this year?"
"Well, yes, we have," I said, "but we do two a year." She still looked doubtful. My mother, you see, is not a foodie. You can open her fridge and if you're lucky, spot a tomato, some milk, possibly a little parmesan. She thinks half a potato each is a serving and it drives me a little mad.
Years ago, I did a story where the cook Annabelle White taught me how to make a pavlova. I took the opportunity to have a little moan to her about how when went home, my mother never bothered to make anything special for dinner for me. "One year," I said, "when it was my birthday, she told me we were having roast lamb because that's what my father liked and plum pudding (which I hate) because she had some still in the freezer."
I felt sure Annabelle would join me in my outrage. Instead, she looked at me and told me something I'll never forget. "Michelle," she said, "your mother shows her love in other ways."
