Sundays and pastry

We didn't have much in the way of furniture or clothes, etc, during the Depression, but from my point of view we still enjoyed many things as a family. Our Sunday dinners saw the table full of good food and the sideboard loaded with pies or cakes my eldest sister, Hilda, had baked. Hilda faced a daunting task in looking after us. (Note: our mother had died when I was one year old, and when she was old enough, my eldest sister, Hilda, left school to look after us all.)

Hilda had only just turned 14 but she and Dad and felt that we could manage if we all did our bit. For Hilda, it was a very large bit, but she gave it a go. Sometimes the baking or cooking would not be quite right and she would worry about it, and there were probably a few grumbles, but they were few and far between. We dined very well indeed.

Today, sometimes, a tune from the radio will strike a chord and my mind will fill with scenes from the times when Hilda would be baking. First, the dining room table would be scrubbed clean. Then the flour would be weighed, other ingredients added, mixed then turned out onto baking trays or cake tins.

The fire would have been stoked beforehand, or the gas oven set to heat up. The radio would be playing and I knew that soon, deliciously mouth-watering smells would start to fill the room. I helped, along with my sister, Jean, to mix the butter and sugar, clean out the tins and bowls after mixing, and tasting this and that to make sure that everything was right.

Pastry seemed so easy to make watching Hilda. It was allowed to stand before cutting, otherwise it would shrink when it was baked. The pastry would be placed carefully over the plate already greased lightly with a piece of butter, pressed gently down, then, holding the plate up in one hand, it was turned slowly around while the excess pastry was cut from the outsides of the plate, to fall in a long string on the table.

Next, the filling - apples, rhubarb, blackberries, blackcurrants, apricots, or whatever we could gather or find. After the fillings, the top was carefully trimmed as before. Then the prongs of a fork would put in a nice decorative edge to the pie along with three cuts in the middle to let the steam out when it was baking. The pies looked so neat and scrummy lined up on the table ready for the oven. And later, when we sat down to our meal, there would be a spread of good wholesome food on the table, and more on the sideboard, just in case.

Depression there was, all around us. But somehow we, like lots of others, found in the ordinary things of life, something to sustain, delight and encourage us.

As I think over those times today, I marvel at the way my sister, Hilda, managed to cope with all the things that faced her. She did cope, and in the coping made it possible for us to be together as a family in our own home, and for that I am so very grateful to her. And when I think of 'home', the picture in my mind that best describes that word to me is the image of the family times we shared together at 1 Pump Street, Longridge, enjoying food around our table for our Sunday dinner.

Dennis Crompton © 1996