Granny's Tattie Soup

I remember being 7 years old and hiding under the rain cover of the hammock in my granny’s garden with my book. I stared blankly at the pages, too upset by my great granny’s nasty words to take anything in. A disembodied head with a kind smile, gentle blue eyes, and cat-like glasses, appeared under the cover.

“Hey,” Granny said, “you okay?”

“Fine,” I said, staring at my book with tears threatening behind my eyes.

“What did she say to you?”

“Nothing.”

“Now I know that’s not true,” she said, “But you don’t have to tell me if you don’t want to. You pay her no heed. She’s an evil and bitter old woman. The tattie soup’s ready.”

I looked up then and smiled. Granny’s tattie soup could cure all ills and even the threat of having to sit next to ‘the witch’ couldn’t dull my enthusiasm. It was so thick you could stand a spoon up in it and it had big, yummy chunks of beef. She served it with butteries, and it was absolutely divine.

Throughout my childhood, many of my fondest memories were accompanied by the taste of tattie soup. It provided sustenance when we were ill, comfort when we were sad and energy whilst we played all day climbing bales in the fields and trees in the forest.

When I was 8 years old, I was the flower girl at my uncle’s wedding. I loved my dress. It was the colours of the rainbow and I was so excited to wear it, but when I woke the morning of the wedding, I had a fever and felt sick. I wanted to stay in bed and sleep, but my mum’s frustrated sighs told me she was losing patience with me. I got up and went through the motions of the day. Painting on a false smile for the photos, all the time feeling rotten. Once we were all done with photos, I headed through to the reception and looked around for Mum and Dad. There was no sign of them but then I spotted Granny. The first real smile of the day spread across my face and with a sudden burst of energy, I ran across the room to her. Taking me in her arms, she said, “Hey Poppet, I hear you’re not feeling too good.” I shook my head and snuggled into her as she kissed my head and stroked my hair. She placed the palm of her hand on my forehead to gauge my temperature. “She’s really hot, Alice,” she said to my mum when she returned.

“Well, she’s just going to have to manage through the meal, Mum,” she said angrily. “Paul’s the best man, he can’t exactly leave before the speeches.”

“Let me take her back with me. She can have some soup and I’ll put her to bed. I can bring her home tomorrow afternoon.”

“Fine,” Mum said with an exasperated sigh and, with an exaggerated roll of her eyes, she stormed off. As I watched Mum leave, I understood that she was disappointed with me and guilt filled me.

“Come on then, wee one. Let’s go home.” I took Granny’s hand and followed her from the hotel. The warmth of her smile comforted me and when we arrived at her house she made me a nest on the couch with fleece and lambswool blankets and brought me a tray with a bowl of tattie soup and a glass of milk. As I ate, she sat beside me and stroked the hair from my sweaty forehead. That night I slept soundly; content, snug and protected by Granny’s love.

As I grew, my visits to Granny’s got fewer as the busyness of life overtook me but I returned whenever I got the chance. She grew frail; her hair became thinner and completely white. Now, it was I who brought the tattie soup to her, but it was still her who prepared it. She never would tell me how.

“Granny,” I’d say, “I really want to know how you make your soup.”

“I don’t have a recipe,” she’d reply. “I can’t tell you because I just throw stuff into the pan. There’s no set quantity or method.”

She has left us now and that’s a loss that I still haven’t quite come to terms with. It saddens me that my boys will never know the joy of going to Granny’s and will never experience her delicious soup. I try periodically to make it but without success. I’ll keep trying and maybe one day I’ll manage to recreate the magic of Granny’s tattie soup.