Treacle Toffee

I awoke this morning to the smell of wood burning smoke hanging in the air. Someone last night had a fire in the neighbourhood. One of those little back yard fires that takes the chill out of the evening and lets you believe that you are camping. I was not sure if I liked the smell and as I sat on the back step sipping my coffee breathing it in , cursing my soggy butt, I tripped a switch that took me to my grandmothers pantry.



I loved the walk in pantry. It smelled of all things wonderful. There was a side of smoked bacon hanging wrapped in cheese cloth, fresh ground coffee, strong aged Cheddar, freshly baked bread and always , always a home made sweet.



My Gran kept a large pantry, it was a great place to explore. The spice cupboard was exotic, each earthen ware jar perfectly labelled in her neat hand writing. Although I never liked jam as a child I loved the look of the jam on the shelves. Each one sparkling and glowing in the light like a jewel. I liked to run my fingers over the tops of the tightly stretched cellophane tops that bonged like a drum, each with its own timber based on the contents. Apple jelly, blackcurrant jelly, raspberry jam, gooseberry jam and all sorts of fruits in syrup or brandy. The jars of fruits made the best sound, they seemed hollow almost. She also had braids of onions hanging alongside braids of garlic. Under the table were large pot of earth where she kept winter leaks when it got to cold to leave them in the garden. There were shelves stacked with biscuit tins. She was well known for her baking. The tins usually contained her precious shortbread, ginger snaps and something called a gypsy cream, it had a hint of coconut and was very yummy. When there was a fete or a church bazaar she would scoop up all the prizes. I enjoyed visiting this kitchen.

I have this great memory of making treacle toffee with my Gran. I would sit on the table and watch as she busied about with the butter and sugar beating them in a pot and then slowly warming them on the wood burning stove. She would then add the treacle and I would get to lick the spoon. As the concoction bubbled and boiled she would dribble in small small amounts of cider vinegar and the toffee would begin to smell amazing. The pot would be taken off the burner and sat in a galvanized steel tub filled with water to cool. I was forbidden to go near it. She then kept me busy with other chores in the kitchen which I was happy to do. Later when the goop in the pot had cooled enough to handle she would butter the marble table top and pour the treacle onto the table. She would then help me butter my hands and together we would pull and play and giggle as we helped aerate the toffee and watch it turn from a dark blob to ribbons of gold. I loved the part where I would snip the toffee with the scissors in to bite size pieces while sampling of course.



I was only four when my gran died leaving my father in a grief so deep I was afraid he might die too. A few months later my younger brother was born. It moved him from his grief but he was still sad and broken. My mother worked hard to keep the world a positive place and eventually my dad got back to the man I knew. He built me my own play house, quite fancy for its time. In there I baked his favorite apple pie ( sand and somethings resembling apples) , he came to eat and always told me it was great.



Daisy nudging me pulls me from my revelry and I let go of the sweet memory. So my should's today begin with calling my folks and baking some ginger snap cookies.