Easter, my grandmother and the trouble with caraway seeds

Which items of food from your childhood did your parents force you to eat which now, blessed with the gift of choice, you wouldn’t touch with a proverbial bargepole? Pig trotters, cow heels and various items of offal, such as hearts, brains and ‘lights’, may spring to mind. Brussels sprouts, of course, and possibly dubious seafood such as cockles and whelks. Some may also rejoice that tripe and onions and beef dripping rarely feature on the menu these days, outside of Michelin-starred restaurants that really should know better.

As I mull over these delicacies, all of which I have consumed reluctantly, my mind wanders back to Easter visits to my grandmother’s spick and span council house on the other side of the Pennines. Both my mother and grandma were good cooks, but prone to using ‘unusual’ ingredients.

Breakfast was a highlight, as daily I woke to the tantalising smell of homemade hot cross buns, to be bathed in golden butter.