My mother’s hands

My mother’s hands bear a series of scars. Zebra stripes of faded pearl emblazoned from thumb-to-wrist like battle-worn high ranking epaulettes, knuckles dinged with rose and lilac hued divots. Each one a gift from the kitchen oven; a testament to maternal diligence, a brutal badge of achievement rewarding hours spent kneading love into dough, teaching younglings the words to ABBA while bedazzling apples with sticky syrup and sultanas, soothing first love’s zitted casualties as carrots, newly-wrestled from the garden are scrubbed and de-robed as fast as the tears are stemmed.

Every scar the result of a newly invented dish, a hearty pie, a richly-smelling roasted joint being pulled from a furious, ever-slaving cooker. A hotchpotch tapestry of searing pain and familial contentment, embroidered with the hours spent beating her heart into batters, dancing o’er underfoot babes and dogs to turn lifeless starch and protein into well-fed bellies and laughter-ringed dinner tables.

The scars on my mother’s hands tell a tale of devotion and love dished out to her children through years of skilled, honest, joy-filled cooking.

And me? My perfectly manicured hands have a burn too! From retrieving a processed pizza-for-one.