This piece is about macaroni cheese – the meal my granny would always make whenever I visited her with my parents, brother and sister. When she died, after a long illness and much time in hospital, I did not feel sadness but happiness for the end of her suffering. Her death did not really affect me then, but now it haunt me sometimes. I wonder if, in some way, I had a hand in it? If, in always expecting tray upon tray of glorious, oozing yellow pasta me, and my siblings, wore her down? This piece ruminates on the question of a woman’s place and the generational difference between me – a university graduate – and her, a mother, home keeper and cook.
But it’s mostly about macaroni cheese, and her, and how much she is missed.