The Hogans of Glenart

My poor long suffering wife must be tired of hearing about "Glenart" - my late mother's family home. It was bigger by far than any house which we could ever aspire to and it had a room to suit all those old fashioned words - a drawing room, a sitting room, a scullery, and not one but two pantries - one of which had once been the maid's quarters - an outside loo had a willow pattern toilet pan - by now you have the general idea - I won't labour the point. This house was located on Glenart Avenue in Blackrock and was the home of my aunt - a larger than life, wonderful woman who was the life and soul of every party - and whose hospitality was legendary. My aunt, Una, was a caterer by profession and enjoyed catering so much that in her spare time she still catered. She catered for parties for several well-known people, she iced wedding cakes for the great and the good - and at Christmas time she threw one or two major parties in her own home - usually a children's party and an adults' one as well.

When I think of that house on Glenart Avenue, apart from the parties, I think of larders full of jams & preserves ready for the Oblate Fathers' 'Sales of Work', I think of Una's hectic social life and her unfailing generosity to all and sundry and I think especially of that wedding-cake… and I blush. I suppose I was six or seven and like many the lad before and after me, I had a sweet tooth. The first pantry off the kitchen was locked with a large key which, more often than not, was left in the door. This room was opened quite often and I knew that in the old sideboard there were several tasty tit-bits to be had - chief among these were the crystallised ginger and the sticks of angelica. Not many six years olds of my generation even knew what angelica was but I had developed a taste for it. Therefore whenever the opportunity arose, I would sneak in and help myself to a few of these tasty green treats. On one occasion I discovered that the inner pantry - which was usually kept closed with the aid of a piece of string - was open and it was here that I spotted a three tier-wedding cake. It was a work of art. I looked and admired it - and then I looked again and was tempted.

The spirals of icing could be removed so easily and they were still soft in the centre. One led to another and before I realised it I had a pain in my tummy and the poor cake was almost denuded. Naturally I closed the inside door as best I could and then closed the outside door and went about my business. That evening my aunt had to go into the pantry for something but came out again looking her usual cheerful self. The next evening, before she settled down to listen to The Archers, she opened the pantry door again but this time I could hear her progressing further and the telltale gasp of discovery. She came out trying her very best to look cross but smirking gently at the good of it all. After a rushed phone-call to the bride-to-be giving some lame excuse why that night would not suit to inspect the cake she brought it out to the kitchen and spent her evening re-icing it. She let me watch the proceedings and even allowed me to lick the bowl but warned me never ever to go into the pantry again while she was out - and I didn't - it may be forty years ago - and my Aunt Una is long since gone to her reward but I still remember that wedding cake and when I do I realise the true nature of forgiveness.