Words by: Tom Cran (he/him)
Despite it being a one-man army in the kitchen, everyone still fills up the cramped space, chatter of offering to help, filling up whatever space remains. The room boils over as everyone is ordered to ‘clear off.’
In the ground. In the garden. Sandwiched between the rhubarb and leeks. Nowhere near the mint, obviously. Grandad’s pulling the tatties out the ground. Whether it’s a handful just for himself or a baskets worth for anyone who wants them, he’ll do it alone: his process, his food. Each one passed hand to hand, then hand to basket. All rife with dirt, imperfections, and the occasional slug – in which case they’re sent over the fence. At this point, it’d be impossible to believe that anyone would want to eat them. The only part of the process I can be trusted with is getting them to the kitchen – even that is done under close instruction. The rest of the process is left to him. The cooking isn’t a mystery, the tatties aren’t fried, baked, roasted, or mashed; they are left to be their most simple: boiled. Around Grandad’s boiling is beef spitting in pans and other veg being done in a similarly simple manner. Despite it being a one-man army in the kitchen, everyone still fills up the cramped space, chatter of offering to help, filling up whatever space remains. The room boils over as everyone is ordered to ‘clear off.’
Smells floating through the house take care of the remaining anticipation; only the dogs are possibly more excited for tea. Steam fills up the room as food touches the table. Seconds have they been put down before the tatties bounce to all the plates. They’re scooped and eaten with a sense of urgency, as anything resembling a leftover will be the dog’s dinner before anyone can argue. Between mouthfuls, the same conversation fills the room. Much of the content revolves around family friends I have no chance of knowing, some even Mum will barely know. But an image is painted. An image of a world so close to mine, but one I was never a part of. Stories of a community that was always there for each other. Whether it was helping with the day’s work or raising a newborn, someone was there to help.
As dinner is finished, Grandad leaves the table first, insistent on helping. Mum commands that we at least do something, the two of us clean up the table. Later, sat in the living room that’s ablaze with the fire running since this morning. Conversation has died down, and Grandad has fallen asleep in his chair. A small reprieve from all he does. I think about the meal, about the tatties, I think about how Grandad once had a Grandad and how they once shared the same meal we just had.
