The Daybed in the Kitchen

In the winter her grandmamma slept under the blankets on the daybed in the kitchen, her granddad in his chair counting sheep in the next room, a cob of ash on his chest. Her grandmamma made the most scrumptious raspberry pie, crimping the edges with the heel of her thumb then laying them on the windowsill to cool. Saturday afternoons she made all things raspberry: tarts and flans, raspberry tortes with custard, pinafores and teacup size cakes, rolls and raspberry jam cookies. The kitchen was a symphony of smells, her grandmamma breaking saffron-yellow eggs on the lip of the mixing bowl, her hair spun like cotton candy, her knuckles rubbed raw, and Lela, counting the Bluebirds in the tree outside the kitchen window, awaiting the first mouthful of raspberry pie, the kitchen air sweeter than kissed apples.