Mince pies

I hate mince pies! They whole idea of them makes me feel uncomfortable. They’re call ‘mince’ pies, even though there’s no actual ‘mince’ in them.

My mother straps herself to the oven for a full day every year and makes a baker’s dozen. She’s renowned for them! The question is always asked as early as October by her friends: ‘are you making mince pies this year Dee?’ It has become a tradition! She gives away a few dozen here, and a few dozen there.

After she shares them out between her friends, trading two dozen with one friend in particular in exchange for a plum pudding, there are seven dozen left. That leaves the four houses in Waterford with a bag of twelve each! They always go out of their way to see if my mothers car is there as they salivate over the thoughts of a mince pie and a mug of tea.

The first question when they arrive at the door in convoy isn’t, ‘how was the journey?’ or ‘were the roads bad?’ No, its ‘did you bring the mince pies?’

We have to be careful bringing them into my granny’s house because if she sees them go outside the door at all she has a conniption.

‘Where are you taking them?’ she shouts from the electric reclining chair, unable to find the button to put her feet down fast enough to try to get up and stop whichever family representative braves coming into the lion’s den for their batch!

‘There’s more in the freezer nanny!’ I try to reassure her.

My granny isn’t very steady on the old legs, but she always makes it to the chest freezer in the little room off the kitchen to check that she still has enough.

‘I want no more of them leaving this house!’ she orders. ‘We need them for the boyo’s!’

‘Theres no one here but me you and mom, and I don’t like them!’ I try to explain. My granny was blessed with twelve children, now eleven, and with her dementia she is convinced that the house is still as full as it was and them all growing up. With regard to the ‘boyo’s’ as she calls them, I have to remind her that Sean is in his own house, Paidi is in heaven and Michael is in England! It kills me to tell her but I’ve gotten so used to it at this stage it just rolls off my tongue!

‘Yes, but I want them kept in there for when they come home!’ It’s hard to follow who ‘they’ are or whatever journey her head has them on! We just leave her to it as they could be in a village within a snowflake like the Who’s of Whoville!

My mother isn’t up with the times at all and still has the old Nokia phone where she has to press the number seven four times to get an ‘S’! With the family members in each of the four houses tucking into their supply of mince pies, they text my mother to thank her as they masticate the water pastry filled with ‘mince’! My mothers thumb starts to dance on the numbers, each push emitting a beeping sound.

‘Are you writing a novel?’ my granny asks as it takes about a half an hour to say ‘you’re welcome’ back to the four of them.

I’m always baffled at the rate the allocated bags dwindle and they’re over, risking their lives trying to sneak out some more! I don’t like mince pies, but apparently my mothers are the best! The proof is in the pudding they say, or in this case, the pastry!

picture from pixabay