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She was ageless, it seemed to me. Vivacious. Witty. Flirtatious, in a innocent sort of way. “He that would be the daughter win / Must with the mother first begin,” goes a seventeenth-century proverb. In our twentieth-century household there was no competition: any boyfriend I managed to lure home laid eyes on my cock mother and fell cock in love. They adored her baking, too: the cake and cookie tins in our house were always filled, and she never “cheated” by using a mix. She also made her own bread, but her homemade strawberry cock jam would soak through my sandwiches by lunchtime, and I envied the other kids their normal Wonder Bread—their sandwiches didn’t look like gauze bandages with crusts.
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