Snapshot: Happiness is a warm hammock

Happiness in a hammock. This photograph recalls so vividly one hot summer's afternoon spent in the garden of my sister's thatched cottage in the New Forest. It was one of those hot summer days, and my twins and I, with my mother and my sister, had spent the afternoon basking in the sunshine in the rambling, overgrown garden.

It was a haven for two energetic toddlers. They tore around playing hide and seek and scrambling in the undergrowth, as we relaxed in our deckchairs, enveloped in the sounds of summer – birds chirping, and the gentle hum of pollen-laden bees hovering among the wild flowers.

We had just enjoyed hot scones with butter and jam, and glasses of cold water, and hot tea when Jason and Charmian spotted the hammock, hanging between two low bushes, and launched themselves into it, bringing it thumping to the ground at the moment I took this photo.

So much has changed since that magical afternoon, but this photo sits beside my bed, and each morning and evening when I look at it, I can recall the enveloping feelings of warmth and love that will always remind me of that halcyon day so long ago.

Susan Connelly

Playlist: The bright lights of Middlesbrough

Long Ago and Far Away by Jerome Kern and Ira Gershwin

"Long ago and far away / I dreamed a dream one day / And now that dream is here beside me … / Just one look and then I knew / That all I longed for long ago was you"

This was my mother's favourite song. When I was four, I ran round a hairdressers singing it at the top of my voice, feeling that I was destined to become famous.

Mum was from Middlesbrough; she met my father on a pilgrimage to Lourdes after the war. He was better educated, so she bought herself a dictionary.

Dad brought her to live in south-west London but she hankered for the bright lights of Middlesbrough, which was, when she was young, a thriving town with four cinemas, numerous dance halls and an ice-cream parlour.

It dismayed me to think that my mum was bored with my home town. She had her own vocabulary, largely to cheer herself up. Pork was always "porky billy"; items were never on the table, they were "ont chabble"; and she could never walk up the stairs without chanting, "are-ray-be-dozy-mozy".

Now 93, Mum still enjoys singing and I still like the song Long Ago and Far Away; it makes me feel that there is something elusive worth aiming for.

Marie Hale

We love to eat: Hat (Yorkshire pudding)

Ingredients

4oz (115g) plain flour

1 tsp salt

¼ pint (140ml) milk

¼ pint (140ml) water

2 eggs

1oz (30g) fat

Sieve flour and salt and make a well in the centre. Drop in the eggs with a third of the liquid. Mix to a smooth batter with a wooden spoon. Add another third of the liquid and beat for two minutes. Stir in the remainder of the liquid with a metal spoon. Set aside, stirring every hour. Melt fat in a shallow tin at 220C until smoking hot. Pour in batter and bake for 35 minutes.

Some of my fondest memories revolve around our family roast dinners, lovingly prepared by my mother throughout the 60s and beyond. They were usually chicken but sometimes beef, but whatever the meat, the roast dinner gathered three generations of our family, sharing food and fun.

Roast beef was never complete without Yorkshire pudding, and, not content with making individual ones, my mother used to make one large, glorious pud. An important part of the ritual was the moment when the perfect pudding would be ceremonially presented at the table. A proudly puffed up structure of golden-brown deliciousness, it always produced awe but on one particular occasion, my younger sister declared: "Oh, what a lovely hat!"

Hysterics ensued, and so another strand was added to the family tapestry, and became so much a part of the our folklore that "hat" entirely replaced "Yorkshire pudding", much to the bemusement of visitors, which was especially embarrassing, in later years, if the visitor happened to be one of our boyfriends.

In due course, one of those boyfriends, not having been chased away by this or any other of the family's eccentricities, became my husband and my mum presented me with a handwritten recipe book containing many family favourites, including hat.

Then along came our children. Eventually, the day came when our two young daughters were presented with hat for the first time, and almost 30 years after its first naming ceremony, this provoked the same hilarity in a fourth generation. The photograph here is of a recent attempt but does not live up to my mum's millinery standards.

Carolyn O'Hara