Cakes are Made to be Eaten

I received news last week that I have a new job as a freelance ghost writer. It is for a company called Story Terrace, who are the most beautiful memory makers. The process is to match someone with a professional writer who will help them document a part or their whole life story. The text along with images create their personal story and several copies of a stunning hard back book are published. Memories captured forever.

As part of my profile, I was asked to create a little snippet of my own life and memories that customers could read about me. I wrote a short piece about my grandad. Here it is. What would your story be?

Cakes are Made to be Eaten

I was in my early 20’s when my grandfather passed away. He was in his mid-80’s and had been without his beloved, my grandmother for over 15 years. I don’t have many regrets in life, but I regret not spending more time with my grandad after I moved out of my family home, aged 18 and became absorbed in university, relationships and socialising.

I do however, have some fond memories of my grandad. He was a big man with a big heart. A proud, quiet, calm man and so funny. My own dad gets more like my grandad as the years pass. Grandad used to come to my family home each Sunday and Wednesday for dinner. He would bring treats and I remember watching him unpack luxurious yoghurts and fragipans, that I would be desperate to tuck into.

Grandad would tell stories and had little mottos that still make me smile. His sayings were like amusing little poems and phrases that only made sense to us. A secret code. All birthday cards would be from “Grandad and the A-Team,” using our surname as a reference to the 1980’s hit TV show. My older sister and I would stay at grandad’s house, eating ice cream out of cups, with a Cadbury flake in as he recalled stories of his life.  The ice cream always tasted better at grandad’s and we would listen attentively to the adventures. He would talk of the oven he built in the second world war, known as “Geordie’s oven” and he would tell of the friends he made in Tilburg, Netherlands, who he continued to visit into his retirement.

After the war, grandad was a baker, working for Greggs. He travelled the world with my grandma; visiting Russia, America and Europe, always taking a Greggs bag to proudly display in the holiday snaps. He would bake and decorate delicious cakes and each Christmas I remember being in awe of the fruit filled delights. Covered in marzipan, icing and intricate detail, they would lie on the sideboard in the lounge, opposite a painting of Mona Lisa that he always said was the original.

Precious memories don’t just live in a special place in our minds, they live in our hearts. Grandad was a legend and I cherish my memories of him. Perhaps part of him lives on in me in my fondness of all things sweet. Although I’m definitely more of an eater than a baker!

To find out more about Story Terrace, click here

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