Pavlova, pink dresses and princesses.

On my own, aged five, in a car, outside a pub with a bottle of cola and a packet of crisps. How my childhood defined me.

The picture of a childhood. All things nice, sugar and spice. Except my early memories are splintered and fractured when I try and recall early childhood. Jagged edges of a broken mirror reflecting painful images of an early life lost. My memories are disjointed because there was never a smooth flow to the narrative arc of early years. These are the ever-shifting sands of living with an alcoholic father. And this is where my anxiety and fear of the day began. Living with constant impending danger. Will there be shouting, will there be fighting?  It may or may not happen. I learned to live in a constant state of alarm, the childhood trauma and there is no way out, there is no control. And this is where my anxiety fed the controls and compulsions – the tapping, counting, checking rituals which were to become my coping mechanism to make me feel safe. These obsessive behaviours (Obsessive Compulsive Disorder OCD) controlled the physical fear and anxiety, which would inflate and deflate like a balloon in the pit of my stomach, and temporarily made the intrusive, negative thoughts go away to make me feel safe. And it was only as an adult in my 50’s that I was to understand the source, the root cause of this trauma. Why I had impending daily doom, why I felt the grief of a life lost and feeling continuing fear of the future coupled with realities of menopause and empty nest syndrome. Who was I? Where had Sarah gone? I had to go back and love that little girl again who had been left scared and scarred. Understanding that I was an adult child of an alcoholic. And how my rigid controls were to work throughout my life as a superpower. And drove me to succeed.

Memories

Smells, colours, sounds and textures comeback to me like kaleidoscope of prints in my mind when I think back to that little girl.

Two strong images come back to me at this time which have had significant impact in my life. I would have been five or six. The first, going home in the car after the pub, the smell of my dad sucking on menthol sweets, the sickly, pungent mint trying hard to disguise the bitter sour and stale alcohol breath. Mum would be nervously sucking on a cigarette, those fumes filling the car, both making me feel physically sick. All a prelude to the arguments, raised voices, fights and then the remorse, the tears, my dad crying, the empty promises of ‘I am sorry’, ‘I did not mean what I said’ and the worst ‘it won’t happen again’. But the pattern does repeat itself, and as a child you have to keep this dirty secret. My mum was powerless. I was powerless, yet we learned the pattern of the dance and for years I always felt I had no voice.

Making Pavlova

This is my first food memory and learning the love, the sanctuary and solace of the kitchen. I continue to make pavlova as a happy, celebration dessert, especially for Christmas. But I learned early on that food has the power to comfort and validate.  And when I make it I always think back to the little girl helping make it.

The kitchen was square and had a small table and two chairs in the middle where I would eat breakfast.  The window looked out on a square patch of lawn. The oven had those curly, unruly, unstable electric rings as the hob heat source which would glow dangerously red when reached full heat. The dining room led out on to the sliding doors into a small square garden, enclosed by a tall white fence and gate which would lead out to the garages. A classic 1960 home.

Mum was getting ready and for a dinner party and I was involved and connected. And we were busy, miles away from all the sadness, momentarily forgotten.

I can remember carefully cracking the eggs, mum showing me how to use the shells as cups to separate the yolk, saving the opaque stringy, gloopy white which went into the bigger bowl to make the magic. The electric whisks turned and spun, like palominos galloping, the wind in their manes, making spirals so the egg whites trapped and held onto the air, forming billowing glossy white mountainous peaks as the whisk was gently lifted out of the mix. Now in went the crunch of the caster sugar, scraping noisily against the edge of the bowl as each spoonful was whisked in. A dash of vinegar, a sprinkle of cornflour and a metal spoon to fold in a figure of eight, to keep in the precious air. Next a parchment lined baking sheet would house the meringue, mum smoothing and making a slight dip in the middle, to form gentle edges. Turning the preheated oven down, the meringue went into the oven, with strict instructions not to open the door for at least an hour and a quarter otherwise the magic would not happen.   But all I cared about was licking the sugary bowl, the sweet, sticky softness the reward on my fingers.

I clearly remember the floor length pale pink dress mum wore to the dinner party. Dressed to impress. A dessert to impress. It had a diamond cut out in the front which suited her slight slim frame. It was time to dress the pavlova, which had come out of the oven, allowed to cool and was cracked, crumbly and golden, not revealing the secret of its dramatic gooey centre.

First the whipped cream – not too stiff, crowning the centre. My job was to place the strawberries on top, and a few more in my mouth with a dollop of cream! Cool sweet seeded fruit, earthy matt of the cream, and if I was lucky, a sneaky crunchy crumb.

What a happy, safe time – mum and I in the kitchen.

A creative place with purpose so not to have to engage with anyone else.

Just putting off the inevitable.

Mum found the strength to leave years later. Alcohol disrupts lives and we moved many times, and I went to many different schools. I was in a constant state of alarm, my normal. But this was buried and never spoken about. Until now and I have so much more to say.

But for now, let me share my favourite Pavlova recipe with you. Serves 10-12 perfect for happy celebrations. Enjoy.

Raspberry and Passion Fruit Pavlova

For the Meringue base

8 egg whites

Pinch salt

500g caster sugar

4 teaspoons cornflour

2 teaspoons white wine vinegar

For the topping

6 passion fruit

As many raspberries as you wish

625 ml double cream

Preheat the oven to 180c/160c fan, and line a large baking sheet with baking parchment. I tend to make a rectangle shape.

Following the method as described above, mound the meringue onto baking sheet, immediately reducing the oven to 150c/140 fan and cook for 1 and ¼ - 1 ½ hours. Do not open the oven door. It will have risen and cracked on the top and sides. If it is not dry and crispy on the outside give it a little longer. When ready, turn the oven off, open the door and allow to cool completely.

When you are ready to assemble, carefully invert the pavlova onto a plate and peel off the parchment. This means the gooey marshmallow bottom is now the top and perfect base for the whipped cream. Scatter raspberries onto the cream and halve the passion fruit, scooping out the green bejewelled seeds and pulp, dotting in-between the raspberries. Celebrate!