Snapshot: An Essex boy all the way from Germany

This picture of my father in 1954 has been on the wall of the family home since we were young. He arrived in London from Germany, aged 21, unable to speak a word of English, with a battered old suitcase and a hope for a more fruitful future than he would have had in Germany. He began life as a farm worker in Nazeing, Essex, living in a battered old caravan, although for a few weeks he slept in a barn.

He had to check in with the police every week, or they would cycle by, giving him a wave, to make sure he was still working at the farm. Part of the agreement of him coming to England to work was that he had to take a job no English person would take, for a period of five years. It was the postwar era and, because he was German, people were very suspicious of him and his motives.

My father worked extremely hard to integrate into English life and eventually met my mother. But the story behind this picture is that one day he travelled into London and Trafalgar Square, where he had his picture taken with a pigeon on his arm by a professional photographer. Dad handed over the money, but didn’t hear from the man for three months, until he tracked him down and retrieved his precious photograph.

My father is 81 now and an Essex boy through and through, but the handsome man in the picture reminds him of those poignant, simple days when there was some hardship, but most of all hope for the future.

Barbara Daniels

Playlist: The trick is to keep breathing

Try Not to Breathe by REM

“I will try not to breathe / I can hold my head still …”

On 29 September 1992, my wife was struggling through painful, anxious hours in the maternity ward at Warrington hospital. Following a long, bumpy, eventful journey towards parenthood, we were at that late stage of daring to have high hopes. The medical team had been monitoring and reassuring us for many hours between their other duties on a busy ward. A young, enthusiastic midwife remained close and attentive throughout, even when her shift had finished. Sure the birth would happen soon, she kindly stayed there for us. We appreciated that.

When she asked if we would like the radio on, we assumed she would like it and agreed. Our concentration was totally focused on what was happening and imagining the next stages. I was aware of the DJ playing a selection of tracks from Automatic for the People, REM’s latest album.

There was a jolt to the prolonged, painful labour, creating some concern and a flurry of activity. A medical team reassembled at the bedside. While this was happening, I could hear Michael Stipe singing, “Try not to breathe.” Not what I wanted to hear at that moment.

All then was rush, fuss and blur, with explained precautions involving some support work in theatre. My wife was wheeled away, leaving me with a rising sense of panic.

“I shudder to breathe.”

Sometime later, I held a bruised, but remarkably calm, baby boy … breathing gently. I checked, several times. When he cried, I did too. He had a fine set of lungs.

“Baby, don’t shiver now.”

Certain songs stick, make links in the mind, return to your lips at odd times. Often they are frames for significant events and they can be strange juxtapositions. This song haunted our son’s childhood: the time he stopped breathing and needed to be rushed to hospital; later as a primary school child treated for asthma. As a strapping, athletic young adult, he stood with his excited parents in Manchester cricket ground, singing along to REM’s wonderful performance. By then he understood why his parents got breathless during a certain song. “I want you to remember.”

Frank Judge

We love to eat: Grandma’s comforting cheese soufflé

Ingredients

50g butter
50g plain flour
300ml lukewarm milk
100g finely grated cheddar cheese
1 level tsp mustard
½ level tsp salt
¼ tsp Worcestershire sauce
Yolks of 3 large eggs
Whites of 3 or 4 large eggs

Melt the butter in a saucepan and add the flour. Gradually whisk in the warm milk and continue gently until the sauce comes to the boil and thickens. Simmer for two minutes. The sauce should be quite thick and leave the sides of the pan clean. Remove from the heat and cool slightly. Beat in the cheese, mustard, salt, Worcestershire sauce and egg yolks. Then beat the egg whites to a stiff snow using a hand-held electric whisk. Gently fold the whites into the cheese sauce mixture using a large metal spoon. Butter a 1 litre soufflé dish or straight-sided heatproof dish and add mixture. Bake in centre of the oven at 190C/gas mark 5 for 45 minutes. Don’t open the oven door while the soufflé is cooking or it will collapse. The soufflé should be well risen with a high golden crown. Serve immediately.

My grandma, Rachel, was always cooking. Her food tasted amazing, as if she had a magic ingredient that she put into everything. I’m not sure that she loved it, or thought she was good at it, but I do know that she cooked for people, to make them happy or cheer them up when they were sad.

The morning my grandad died, I rushed straight over and she cooked me a full English breakfast. That seems astonishing when I think about it now, given her own grief, but it wasn’t strange at the time – she was trying to make me feel better.

She always cooked for others. My earliest memory of her is watching her bake cakes for my grandad, who worked long hours in his garden. He would come in and spread her homemade jam thickly on the cake and wash it down with strong tea. I always got to eat the prized, leftover cake mixture.

Whenever anyone visited, she would offer them food, often cooking them a meal. When I was a little older and started to visit solo, she’d always say, “What would you like to eat?”

I always said cheese soufflé because it was a specialty of hers and seemed so exotic. During my turbulent teenage years, no matter how bad things got, I could always go to Gran’s and she would rustle up a soufflé and serve it with tinned tomatoes.

I haven’t inherited her knack for soufflés but on special occasions, or if I’m having a bad week, my mum will invite me round and make one, using Grandma’s old glass soufflé dish. And together we remember a very special woman.

Liz Goulds

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