Free Autobiography of My Mother by Meg Stewart

long, the back yard was full of pungent-smelling yellow broom and the gnarled, dark-stemmed Isabella grapevine, its fresh green leaves twining everywhere, was covered with smallish black grapes that had a blue bloom on them. Whenever I smell yellow broom, I think of Isabella grapes.
    A persimmon tree grew in the back yard. The luscious orange fruits squirted over my face when I bit into them and I’d lick up the stray orange drops from my chin with my tongue.
    I loved climbing the mulberry tree when the mulberries were ripe; somehow the fruit managed to stain not just my teeth, but my arms, my legs and even my clothes. The mulberry tree was also good for feeding silkworms, fat white grubs I kept in a box, waiting patiently until they turned into cocoons that could be spun into real silk.
    In the netted fowl run lived a turkey gobbler, a ferocious bird that fascinated and terrified me at the same time. I would edge up to watch the turkey spread its wings like a peacock, then flee from the awful, gobbling noise that suddenly issued from its swelling throat, with the flaps of red, coarse skin hanging off, as if its neck was inside out. Besides, if I lingered too long, the turkey would peck.
    At the bottom of the back yard, on the other side of the fence, lived a woman and her brother. The woman was not quite right in the head, everyone said. Her days were spent endlessly raking up leaves. She wasn’t gardening; there was no garden, their yard was a wilderness. If I sneaked along the fence I could hear her talking to herself. Sometimes she had a scythe and was cutting the grass. One day I crept as close as I could to hear what she was saying. As she swung furiously at the grass, she was singing to herself, ‘Old Mother Coen and her college-bred brats.’

    The food was one of the things I liked best about The House. I thought it was much better at Grandma’s than at home. Annie did a lot of the cooking, but on special occasions Grandma either supervised or cooked herself.
    There was always a huge soup tureen on the stove, which held broth made with everything. The beef soup wasparticularly good. It was made from shins of beef, which the butcher saved specially for Grandma.
    Auntie Lizzie made French pastry; it was the only thing she ever cooked. I used to beg her for the recipe, but it was another of Lizzie’s secrets. I think it came out of The Goulburn Cookery Book . After the pastry was made it was placed in the safe on the verandah to cool; there was never a refrigerator in The House. Then it was taken out, rolled, folded up and put back in the safe again before being shaped into small and large tartlets or cheese straws with cayenne pepper sprinkled on them. Lizzie’s pastries were delicious.
    At Christmas time, Grandma made cakes and puddings which she sent to members of the family. The mixture was stirred in the tin baths used for washing children. Grandma made her puddings twelve at a time. The baker put them in his oven for her after the bread was done, as the bakery was only a few doors down the street.
    Grandma also made trifle at Christmas, New Year, Easter and any other celebrations. I haven’t tasted trifle like it since. The sponge cake was kept until it reached the right degree of staleness, then soaked overnight in sherry. Next morning, a layer of apricot jam was spread over it. A thick, creamy custard made with eggs and a peach leaf for flavour was cooked in a double boiler; when it had cooled the custard was poured over the cake.
    Brilliant red and green jelly for the top of the trifle was prepared next. I had the job of peeling the Jordan almonds. They had been allowed to stand in hot water first, so the skins came off easily. Whipped cream covered the custard and the jelly was placed in a pattern over the top of that. The almonds, cut in half lengthways, were put all over the whipped cream and jelly.
    Pauline was staying with us one Christmas. When Annie went to bring in the