christmas gravy

My sister and I are spending our first Christmas together without Mum. My small offering towards our festive feast is the gravy. Vegan, easy to make and delicious, we had it last year at Mum's house and enjoyed it. Merry Christmas!

● 1 onion, finely chopped

● 1 tbsp olive oil

● 1 tsp mustard seeds

● 2 cloves garlic, chopped

● 1 stick celery, chopped

● 5 cherry tomatoes

● 600ml vegan vegetable stock

● 2 tsp cranberry sauce

● 3 tbsp vegan red wine

● 1 tsp dried mixed herbs

● Salt & pepper

● Gently fry the onion in the oil for 5 minutes

● Add mustard seeds, garlic, celery and tomatoes and cook for another 5 minutes, stirring occasionally

● Add stock, cranberry sauce, wine and herbs, season and simmer for 15 minutes

● Purée with a stick blender until smooth

 Fry

 Simmer

Blend
Will keep for up to 3 days in the fridge. Can be frozen for up to 3 months.

things that break my heart - candlelight

Doreen Edna Logan (née Furmage)

The evening of the day Mum died I lit a candle and let it burn down in the darkness of my bedroom. I set it in front of a photo taken on her 70th birthday in 2005, me to her right, my sister to her left: the same positions as at the moment of her death. The candle illuminated her photo, so if I woke in the night she was smiling out at me. I'm very grateful that Mum died with 'her girls' present. My memory is muddled but Clare's voice is clear, simply stating  'it's happening!' as we simultaneously leaned in close to stroke her face and hair and say, 'goodbye Mum, goodbye' as she died. Her colour change was dramatic, in the instance her heart stopped beating she was yellow, the effect of liver failure shockingly apparent - poor thing.

Each night before I sleep, I say out loud, 'night Mum', and in her voice answer, 'night dear'. I'm trying to retain her voice, as my Dad's is long forgotten. It is important that I do this for a year, the last night lighting will be on the 1st May 2018. I'll buy a special candle to burn on the 2nd May, lightening it at 5.45pm, the time of her death. I mentioned my ritual to a friend who's husband is from Ghana. His father died last year and she told me the first year of bereavement is honoured in his culture, marked by family gatherings and a celebration and remembering of the loved ones life. This first year feels sacred. My first year with no father, no mother. 

things that break my heart - lipstick

Mum was clearly very ill, and on 13th April we visited the doctors on Pyrles Lane for her second round of blood test results. It had been a challenge getting her to the doctors, her legs so swollen she couldn't bend them at the knee, so getting in and out of the taxi and walking to the surgery was a monumental effort.

While waiting for the taxi, Mum sat in the living room, having applied her pink lipstick. It was a heart stopping moment, seeing her pink lips against yellowing skin and, as happened repeatedly throughout each day, witnessing how dreadful she looked, how ill she was. Her routine and pride in her appearance existed throughout the last weeks of her life. In the doctors waiting room, I remained outwardly cheerful while my chest ached at her obvious decline. It was at this appointment that cancer was first mentioned and I wanted to shield her, protect her from THAT word. I wanted the doctor to whisper it to me, I would carry it.

Mum lived for 19 more days, dying at 5.45pm on Tuesday 2nd May 2017.

The last few weeks of our lives together were one of a before unknown level of physical intimacy. Each morning I soaked her swollen feet in a bowl of scented water. My sister and I had visited Brighton in April, Mum giving us £20 to treat ourselves to lunch. In a health food shop I'd bought her a sachet of lavender bath salts, thinking she would enjoy a foot soak. The smell was indeed lovely, and I washed her feet and swollen legs, gently exfoliating her dry and flaking skin, carefully drying then moisturising with E45. I remember looking up at her from my position on the floor one morning and seeing her resting with her eyes closed as her feet soaked in the warm water. I hope I was able to give her some comfort in her last days.

6 days before she died, I washed Mum's hair, my first time doing so. As she was chair bound, the process began with covering her in towels, wrapping one around her neck, draping one across her shoulders. She held a bowl of warm water on her lap, and I wet her fine grey hair, soaping it into a lather. She leaned her head towards the bowl and I poured clean water from a plastic jug over her head, watching as it ran over the contours of her face and dripped from her nose. That day I also washed her face and arms. Seeing her in her vest, much reduced from the round soft Mum I'd known, her shoulders small, arms thin with skin hanging was unspeakably painful, a shock to the child in me, her daughter. 

I'd selected an outfit from her wardrobe and helped her dress. Her fine straight hair had never been to her liking, so Mum asked for her curlers and she twisted them into her hair for the last time. Automatic, no mirror needed. There was one strand of hair that misbehaved and I tucked it around a curler for her. This whole performance exhausted Mum. I think she was glad when I left her in peace.

things that break my heart - last shopping trip

Mum on holiday in her youth, in a skirt she made

It is now a full year since Mum and I walked down Pyrles Lane, hopping on the 20 bus and sharing our last walk along Loughton High Road together, before going to Morrison's for her weekly food shop. It was a bright and chilly autumn day, from the bus stop next to Molen's cafe we walked to the zebra crossing, then up to Halifax bank. Mum wanted a statement and to withdraw £200 from her account. I walked her to a comfortable seat, then queued at the cash machine. Glancing at her sitting patiently, I was glad she was safe and had my sister and I to trust in. Having her pin number and money at my fingertips I thought of all the older/vulnerable people with untrustworthy relatives, and felt the honour of her trust. I returned to her, gave her the statement and cash and shared my thoughts. During these moments I sensed this would be the last time we would do these everyday things together.  

A few doors from the bank is M&Co, we went there as Mum enjoyed looking at fashion. When she was younger she made her own clothes and is so stylish in photos of that time. As kids she knitted us jumpers and cardigans, teaching me to knit in her own loopy way. In M&Co Mum bought herself a hat and gloves. The gloves were made of a blue checked fabric and I tried them on and found them short in the fingers, but Mum was happy with them. I have my mothers hands, sometimes we used to place out hands next to each other and marvel at their match, when I look at them I think of her, especially as I age. The hat was a soft peaked cap in a mottled grey fabric with discrete velvet bow on the right side, it suited her, and of course, I tried it too. Mum went to the till and paid.

The hat is one of the items I keep in a memory box of her belongings, it has significance for me. Mum wore it once, the day in December when we walked to the doctors surgery on Pyrles Lane, her lower legs red, hot and swollen. It was at this appointment that blood tests were first suggested to understand the cause of the swelling. I remember her being incredibly tired when we got in, she had done so well in walking almost a mile. 

things that break my heart - london zoo

This is my Mum. Mum never showed us this photograph, I found it in her bedroom chest of drawers. It is strange that now she is gone this image appears of her so young and I wish I could ask her about it. The woman I knew is visible in this pretty child's face. Look at her adorable checked summer dress with its peter pan collar, her soft blond hair shining in the sun, the right hand that I held as she died. 

Who took her to the Regents Park Zoo that day? Who took the photo? Who's handwriting is that? Mum was the youngest of seven siblings and living in Camden Town they were near the zoo but I bet it was a memorable day, as money was tight.

It was an honour to have been present and fully engaged with my mother as she died. This image reminds me of the inevitability of death in the face of her illness, while simultaneously radiating the hope of life to come, of new beginnings, of all that would unfold for this little girl Doreen. I am so sad it is over. 

things that break my heart - council house

Mum lived in a council house, so from the day after she died my sister and I were charged full rent on the house she had lived in since 1975. We are both fortunate in having mortgages to pay, so for financial reasons we had to clear Mum's home as quickly as possible. Because of the speed of this I decided to keep a pile of Mum's belongings, thinking at a later date I could be more selective. It turns out everything I kept fitted perfectly into the floral box I bought for the purpose. 

It was traumatic clearing Mum's house immediately after her death. I gave myself a whole day over her bedroom, folding her knickers, tights, pop socks, carefully placing items into bags for recycling/the tip/charity. While the house still looked like her home I allowed myself an afternoon of watching TV and taking a short nap in her bed - quietly observing her view, the ceiling with its textured paint and cracks, the nets I hemmed years ago, the view to the small landing where we thundered about as children. 

When we moved to the house I was four, and the first thing I did was to sit crossed legged in the corner of the living room and spread my Ladybird books out in front of me. On my last moments in the house, I sat again, cross-legged, 42 years later in the empty living room. Thanking the walls, I thought about the next family to inhabit this space, call this house home and enjoy the view of the forest from the living room window, The cycle continues, and I was glad that my family never had the money to profit from social housing, that another family without the means to own property would benefit from a sturdy, safe council house.  

things that break my heart - hair and teeth

Ring box containing baby teeth and hair on top of my keepsake box for Mum

Address in the ring box: Dawson & Briant, Goldsmiths & Watchmakers, 281 Kentish Town Rd, London, N.W.5.

Mum had a heart shaped, fabric covered ring box, and forever I've known about it. It contains mine and my sister's baby curls. Mine a dull blond, my sister's shiny with a reddish tinge. This precious box also holds two baby teeth wrapped in toilet tissue, the first teeth lost? Mum was not one for stories, of telling her/our past and we were scared to ask as much of the time she would become upset and silent, her eyes reddening, the atmosphere altered somehow. Her way of signalling the end of a conversation was to stare at the ever present TV.

When I open this box it feels incredibly precious. A woman in her late 30's kept the hair and teeth of her daughters, a symbolic and significant act. Was she a poetic soul? Moved by the love for her girls? One of our cousins talks of Mum being a joker and a laugh. As a child Linda would walk from Camden with the family dog Judy, meeting Mum every Friday on the Euston Road where she worked. Mum would take her to a toy shop on the way home, encouraging Linda to pick a toy and Mum would buy it for her. Sadly, my sister and I don't recognise this woman years before we were born, Mum suffered domestic abuse from our alcoholic and traumatised Dad, it's understandable she would lose herself during her married years. We knew Mum as anxious, a worrier and not much fun to be around, though in this she was doing her best. I always hid parts of myself, making sure I was the version she needed. 

The ring box now lives within a larger box. A box I bought to contain selected belongings of Mum's, personal items that in the coming years will evoke her. This box contains:

1 x pair of black shoes
1 x turquoise fleece
2 x Damart tops
1 x M&Co embroidered shirt, Mum had shortened the sleeves, so her hand stitching is evident and makes me cry
The Epping Forest Guardian Newspaper containing her death notice
The Order of Service from her funeral
1 x M&Co hat, bought on our last trip to Loughton together
Glasses and case
Purse containing bus pass, bank cards, Morrisons card, VIP Taxi card, stamps, door key, an old £1 coin and a photo of my sister and I
Magnifying glass, that belonged to Dad
Old green comb
Wrist watch
2 x lipsticks, Smoked Peach and Pink in the Afternoon by Revlon
Spider's Web (tape), Francisco Yglesia plays the Paraguayan Harp, bought in Harlow
Letter opener
Fresh mint tictac's
Jessie's identity disc, our dog who died in 2005
Heart shaped ring box with baby hair and teeth

things that break my heart - chair

Mum died at 5.45pm on the 2nd of May, 6 months today. I've decided to mark this first half year with a series of writings, collectively titled: Things That Break My Heart.

In the lead up to Mum's death there were moments I knew I'd never forget, even as they were happening. Mum had a beautiful oval mirror above the fireplace, and one day while helping her to her chair I glanced into the mirror and saw a bent old lady with thinning grey hair and stooped posture being helped by a broad shouldered giant of a woman, young looking but middle aged, her arm through the old ladies arm, supporting her tiny juddering steps before she folded (collapsed, sunk, fell) into the chair. The difference in us was a sharp slap to my face. As if the mirror showed the truth where my eyes could take the edge off the situation, my brain performing a trick to help me endure.

There was something about her dusky pink cardigan, bought last Christmas by my sister, hanging off her even then, that was tragic, its knit, colour, buttons just looking so sad. Mums back so curved and she appeared much shorter than her 5ft 4in frame. Mum, reaching for her chair, anxious to sit down looked worryingly frail, the effort of getting to and from her commode a few feet away a marathon. There was truth in our distance in the mirror, Mum in her final days, me at the midpoint (hopefully) of my life, I walk onwards, without her.

resting place

Furmage Family Plot

This Sunday, my sister and I went to our Mum's grave. We added another bag of compost to the heavy clay soil, planted spring bulbs and perennials and edged the grave with white stones. It was a beautiful, cool, bright autumn day. Before this work I cleansed the space using burning sage, ridding the grave of any residual bad energies. We had a dreadful experience with a member of the cemetery staff before burying Mum's ashes, and sadly, this tainted our goodbye, so cleansing the site was very important.

With soil under our nails we traveled to St Paul's Cathedral, for the Bart's Health NHS Trust & St Joseph's Hospice Annual Service of Remembrance. This service is held in memory of all who have died in Bart's hospitals in the previous year. People of all faiths are welcome to attend and the service included readings, music and poems from a variety of religions. We were invited to write the name of our loved one on a card and this was taken to the altar in a symbolic gesture. It was moving to see the baskets of cards and consider our collective grief.

Attendees were given a beautiful long stemmed white rose to take home, it was heartwarming to see these roses carried tenderly down the cathedral steps, onto the streets, the buses and tubes. It was an unforgettable experience, shared with strangers who walk a brave path with their grief. 

Mum would have been thrilled by the idea of a service in her honour at St Paul's.

ashes

Yesterday would have been mum's 82nd birthday. Yesterday we buried her ashes in the family plot. Doreen Edna Logan joins her mother and two of her sisters on the East Road in Islington and St Pancras cemetery. 

Mum kept a photo of her mother by her bed until the end of her life, this photo was placed in her coffin before cremation. They are reunited. 

My mothers ashes in her petal urn

life drawing

Countless hours at collage were spent honing my observation and drawings skills, and now I rarely draw. This Tuesday I tootled up Leytonstone High Road and attended a class with East London Life Drawing. The assembled group were focused and companionable, and we lost two hours in the best possible way: in the moment, solving the problem of how to depict a living form on 2D paper. For me, it all came together when I got my hands on this red crayon, a blunt, early years type crayon with both beautiful and frustrating qualities.   

fairy

Mum loved brands. When clearing her home I took some comfort in gathering everyday items purchased by her: fabric softener, washing up liquid, soap, shampoo... and using them up in my flat. Mum's presence lingers a while longer in her favourite products, ones I wouldn't buy myself. Some items, particularly the fabric softener bring back the smell of her wardrobe, the sheets on the single beds in the front and back bedrooms. Just over three months have passed since she died and I've been using this Fairy Original, thinking of her as I squeeze green liquid into hot water. Almost used up, its time to buy another and to say goodbye to Fairy, I have not inherited my mothers loyalty to brands.

blue light

Photograph taken earlier in the day

Last week I took a few days off and became a tourist in my birth city. I'd never traveled the Thames by boat and this was the first thing I did, buying a day pass for the Thames Clipper. The day was beautiful, hot on the underground, cool on the river. London stretched out as a panoramic postcard and I enjoyed the scene from Westminster to Greenwich. It was fascinating viewing the city from the river, joining the dots on places I'd visited, familiar sights seen anew from a vantage point unchanged over centuries. Spotting the Prospect of Whitby in Wapping I made a mental note to visit in the future.

Towards the end of my trip the boat approached Tower Bridge and I noticed blue flashing lights above and wondered if a terrorist incident was unfolding. Earlier in the morning I'd disembarked at Westminster and observed the recently installed barriers around Westminster Bridge and was reminded of the terrible incident in March.

Crowds of people were pushed up against railings on one side of Tower Bridge. As we sailed under and beyond I looked back and saw a lone figure in a white t-shirt had climbed over the railings and was standing with their back to the river. The boat stopped at Tower of London and I kept my eyes on the figure, noticing police boats a safe distance below and a growing police presence on the bridge. My heart ached for the crisis that had led to this potential suicide attempt/cry for help. Around me tourists happily snapped away, unable to 'read' the city, blissfully unaware of the personal drama unfolding.

I couldn't take my eyes from the lone figure, small against the bulk of the bridge, they did not fall while in my line of vision. Disembarking from the boat I lost sight of them and found it so hard to walk away, as if I could keep them safe with my gaze. Knowing they were in capable hands helped, police and medics near who could support them, react.

On the cobblestones by Tower of London I quietly turned my body and palms towards the person in crisis, directing a prayer and wishing they felt the love and support around them and could find hope. It was all I could do. As I neared the station I heard an ambulance sirens wail, making its way towards bridge. I've wondered about them since.

high life

Last week I lived the high life! Taking a week off and ticking a few things off my London to-do list, then exploring Walton on the Naze, a place of childhood holidays with my sister, mum and aunt. 

 Canary Wharf

 The Shard and London Bridge

 London Eye

 Modern Wharf, Greenwich Peninsula

 Hampton Court Palace

 Cooking apple windfalls, Hampton Court Palace

 Hampton Court gardens

 Memorial, Walton on the Naze, Essex

 The Naze Tower in the distance

Harwich on the horizon

telling

Telling someone your Mum has died is like being interviewed for the worst job ever...

How old was she?

Was it sudden?

She must have had you when she was older?

If I answer this barrage of meaningless questions, then I feel spent, vulnerable, cross. All someone needs to say is 'I'm sorry to hear that. How are you doing?'. Then I'd feel seen, heard and my heart would soften. 

I'm keeping myself away from people. I have nil energy for flakiness, clumsiness.

strangers

When our cousin Krysia died in 2009, my sister and I were trusted with the task of clearing out her home in Elgin. There were photographs in the loft, so I took it upon myself to sort, order and place them in albums. The photos documented Krysia's life and also that of her parents, Jessie (née Logan) and Andrew (Alfons) Dabrowski.

These photographs are Jessie's, my fathers sister, born 1913 near Elgin, Scotland. Jessie trained as a nurse and while nursing during WWII met her husband to be, Alfons, a badly wounded Polish soldier. Apparently, it was love at first sight.  

The stacks of photographs were sorted into two piles, one familiar people and places and another for strangers. Below are the only images I kept of strangers, something in their expressions, fashion, informal and formal poses fascinated me and I keep them in a large decorative glass that belonged to Jessie. Some have the handwriting of the sitter on the back, to Jessie or Jerry as she was known.

What became of these friends of my aunt, did they know her little brother, Robert? My Grandmother Alexina? Here they are now, gathered together and presented to you, an insight into Scotland in the 30s and 40s, their link - Jessie Dabrowska. 

mum

My mum, Doreen Logan, died on the 2nd May. Her funeral, on the 18th May was a month ago today. Now I am paused, at times with no words to describe how I feel.

As a little girl I stitched this lavender bag for her using fabric scraps and ribbon. It still retained a trace of scent almost 40 years after its making. It was one of the items placed in her coffin.

kiss'd

Leigh Hunt 1784 - 1859

JENNY KISSED ME

Jenny kiss'd me when we met,
Jumping from the chair she sat in;
Time, you thief, who love to get
Sweets into your list, put that in!
Say I'm weary, say I'm sad,
Say that heath and wealth have miss'd me,
Say I'm growing old, but add,
Jenny kiss'd me.

contribution

Sitting in the back of a taxi, listening as a good humoured 67 year old Bangladeshi born taxi driver told me his life story, his 50 years in Yorkshire, his wife, children and eight grandchildren. We joked I'd write a book about him once out of the taxi!

As these things do, the conversation turned to my family, so I told him about being childless and about my work with children. He began to speak and I braced myself, BUT he amazed me by saying, 'that's how you make your contribution, the children will never forget you'. 

I was quietly staggered - my input being acknowledged and recognised by a parent, as part of the rich and complex tapestry of child raising, not excluded or dismissed. Did he have any idea of the impact of these words? I'll never forget them. 

herb walk

 Cleavers

 Hawthorn

 White dead-nettle

 Cow parsley

 Yarrow

Cleavers and stinging nettle