I've never been to Yorkshire
- added July 1, 2008
- 0 responses
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- lynnedjones
- added this
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I've never been to Yorkshire. We have an lonesome aunt from there and yes she made the pudding.
When we'd go to her house north of London, years ago, she sometimes had a copper pot boiling and steaming and the whole place smelled like sweetened lard. It reminded me of the incense in the scary haunted church my friend Anthony Petronelli once took me to - all dark and sad.
I know I talk a lot on these long train rides, but the rocking and the rumbling shake my brain and old heavy thoughts rise up to the top of the ol' pond.
Our aunt was always worried about locking herself out of her house. She firmly believed in locking every door and window - this, remember, was a time when no one locked their doors. So, she wore her house key around her neck whenever she went out. Eventually she took to wearing that key inside the house, too, so she could run out to the backyard garden or go chase the neighbor's dog away. But, then, according to Fiona, she slept with the key (in case of emergency) and always had it on. Although most of the time the key would be hidden under her blouse, the strap, which she never changed, was leather and sweat and mixed with her own body sweat and the steam of her cooking - she made more than Yorkshire pudding.
I imagine she bathed with the strap and key on and probably gently soaped and brushed the strap.
Yet, when we hugged her goodbye, there was a more than human smell, a hyper above floating smell - like strong perfume but of people - no, not of people - of work. You could smell effort or struggle or patience. As a child it perplexed me because I could not place exactly what it was, as I'd walk out down the steps of her porch to the street to walk away holding my father's thick short hands wondering what swirling living progression rose from my aunt's locked chest.
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yaffle our national space
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When we'd go to her house north of London, years ago, she sometimes had a copper pot boiling and steaming and the whole place smelled like sweetened lard. It reminded me of the incense in the scary haunted church my friend Anthony Petronelli once took me to - all dark and sad.
I know I talk a lot on these long train rides, but the rocking and the rumbling shake my brain and old heavy thoughts rise up to the top of the ol' pond.
Our aunt was always worried about locking herself out of her house. She firmly believed in locking every door and window - this, remember, was a time when no one locked their doors. So, she wore her house key around her neck whenever she went out. Eventually she took to wearing that key inside the house, too, so she could run out to the backyard garden or go chase the neighbor's dog away. But, then, according to Fiona, she slept with the key (in case of emergency) and always had it on. Although most of the time the key would be hidden under her blouse, the strap, which she never changed, was leather and sweat and mixed with her own body sweat and the steam of her cooking - she made more than Yorkshire pudding.
I imagine she bathed with the strap and key on and probably gently soaped and brushed the strap.
Yet, when we hugged her goodbye, there was a more than human smell, a hyper above floating smell - like strong perfume but of people - no, not of people - of work. You could smell effort or struggle or patience. As a child it perplexed me because I could not place exactly what it was, as I'd walk out down the steps of her porch to the street to walk away holding my father's thick short hands wondering what swirling living progression rose from my aunt's locked chest.
animation voice words music
yaffle our national space
http://www.youtube.com/ournationalspace
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- lynnedjones
- 2 months ago
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