My mum had a little stool by the kitchen. She'd lift me up to stand on it, and, guiding my hands, would show me how to measure ingredients and, yes, open cans. How to follow recipes and use kitchen implements...

In retrospect, I do laugh, because I ended up cooking most of the family meals while she was doing stuff like protesting at parliament and running for council

When my dad died last year, I had some unpleasant conversations with my elder sister.

Mum never had time or interest to teach her this stuff, apparently.
Which is sad.

Which makes me feel fortunate that I, as the youngest, got to have this time when my mum wanted to be a mum.

Such a different time, the 50s, 60s. I don't think my mum ever wanted kids. But, she married a guy she loved and... well, there were no options otherwise in New Zealand.

Many years later, she wanted to have a child she wanted, and would love, live with, teach.

So, there I was. Almost a decade younger than my nearest sibling. With such a different memory of my mother than them all. The only kid she wanted.

It was rough. We were so poor, and I'm sure my elder siblings grew up feeling even more acutely poor than even I did in the 70s.

Looking back, now, you sometimes don't realise how poor you were.

Seeing it now, we were so.

But, still, there's the good memories. The river just over the back (before they put the SH2 bypass through), always a dog and a few cats, and cookery. Cookery was such a joy.