Grace's Table by Sally Piper

it helps.’
    â€˜I’ll see her well again,’ Grace said, and she used all her strength to shake the potatoes about in the pot, to the point where she doubted any would need further scoring with a fork before roasting.

5
    Enough food cluttered the tops of Grace’s benches and kitchen table to make a refugee weep and she didn’t feel proud. But her family was a hungry one, for all manner of things – food, attention, victory – so there was a level of expectation they’d be fed well.
    There were several kinds of vegetables to be steamed, roasted or baked in béchamel sauce. A rich master stock simmered for gravy. The shredded mint leaves and vinegar and sugar had come together to make an unattractive swampy green-coloured sauce, the look of which belied its pleasingly sharp taste. The lamb continued its slow spit and sizzle in the oven, and every time the oven door was opened, the smell of caramelising fat filled the room. Soft and hard drinks chilled down in the ice-filled laundry tub. And the kitchen sink was crowding with the dirty dishes needed to make it all happen.
    Grace thought of those documentaries where images were sped up to show the life of a plant from seed to shrub or the decomposition of a gazelle, accelerated to seconds. Imagine doing that across a kitchen’s lifetime. What quantities of food! What industry! What consumption! Other rooms would look like forgotten domains in comparison.
    The kitchen gave a family structure, shape – a space in which to exist. And Grace imagined her cooking as its beating heart. She was tireless in the task, but despite the heart’s unwavering commitment, the work was largely ignored. Yes, Grace thought, cooking was much like the hidden work of the heart, unseen inside the cage of the chest.
    Mother’s chest had been made of glass. Her skills and work in the kitchen were never overlooked, and certainly not by Pa.
    Her preserved peaches and plums and chutneys weren’t allowed to remain unnoticed in the dark cool of the pantry, gradually diminished by greedy appetites along with custard, cream or cold meat. Each year the better ones were moved to the produce competition sheds of the local Agricultural Show for a few days. There, housewife pitted herself against housewife in draughty, corrugated-iron sheds where their wares did their best to impress the judges. She entered fruit cakes and plum puddings as well. Pa’s shoulders hitched with amusement at the frenetic lead-up and increased heat in the kitchen as Mother, red-faced and short-tempered, poured, chopped and stirred. Mother responded to his humour with tight lips or a snapped, Well, I’m cooking them for Christmas anyway . Pa, not so easily fooled, declared, We’re going to eat well after this weekend, kids , when the Swiss rolls and jelly cakes and date loaves arranged on pretty plates appeared on the kitchen benches too, items that had nothing to do with Christmas.
    But while Pa might have teased and chuckled at Mother’s cooking madness before the Show, he was the first into the shed to see what she’d won when the judges finally opened the doors. He would lead the family round the long trestle tables, ebullient over the blue ribbons she’d received – and there were many – and disparaging of the lesser or absent ones. Look, she’s done it again, kids , he’d say or Judge must have forgotten to taste this one . Mother, in her publicly pious way, would say little, but Grace noticed her town accent – the normally dropped ‘g’s suddenly finding their way back onto the ends of her words – even more noticeable when she spoke to those women who’d been less successful than her.
    The Show weekend was an important one in a countrywoman’s calendar, Grace came to realise. Those produce sheds gave her mother the chance to be recognised, known as the one who made the best lamingtons or Madeira cake in the