Egg and Chips

By Lucy Dearlove

When I was 18 and my grandma Peg was dying, she spent a few miserable days in a cancer hospice. My mum and I went to visit her and she was alone in a chair in her room, with a plate of egg and chips on her lap. She was having to keep the plate still with one hand as with every movement of the knife or fork the egg and chips were sliding around in the grease and the plate was threatening to slide right off her knees. Unable to command her arthritic fingers to eat one-handedly she was jabbing half-heartedly at the pale chips with the fork in her fist and not managing to eat very much until we helped her. I think of her often but I try not to think of the egg and chips because it makes me cry every time.
I hate that this is my most vivid food memory of my stubborn, kind, fiercely independent grandma, when she made the most delicious fairy cakes and bread buns and the finest pavlova in the north east. She would have been 100 this year.


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