Inna gradually became frailer, so I began to take on the various cooking and other domestic chores by myself. The first thing I would do when I arrived was to take her a bowl of Cornflakes topped with sliced banana, sugar and fresh cream. She would sit up on the side of her bed, take the breakfast tray, give me my instructions and then give me a little smile before beginning to eat. I would then go back to the kitchen and begin the breakfast preparations for the men.
I had quite a bit of trouble synchronizing the breakfast ritual to begin with as I had never used an automatic toaster before, I had never encountered an Aga, and I had never poached eggs the way Inna did. Her method was to half fill a frying pan with water, wait for it to nearly bubble, crack the eggs into a cup one by one (just in case there might be an offish egg) and gently tip them into the frypan.
To say I found this a bit daunting would be an understatement because, you see, I had never, ever helped my own mother cook meals, so I didn’t have a clue how it all worked and had to learn the hard way, via my many mistakes.
Sometimes, Husband would come into the kitchen after milking to the smell of burnt toast and, depending on his mood, he would either grimace or grin. Sometimes, if Inna wanted to go back to sleep for a bit, he and I would eat breakfast together without her presence. Sometimes I would catch him looking at me quizzically, which I always took as a cue to go back into the kitchen to serve the farm workers, put the kettle on, or check on Inna.
Something was happening between us – a little spark – but, at the time, I think Husband and I were both afraid to acknowledge it.
jmgoyder 