Happily Imperfect. Stacey Solomon

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      Three words sum up my childhood: Friday. Night. Dinner.

      It was always held at Nana’s tiny two-bed Jewish flat in north London. It really was a Jewish flat because the block had been built after the war to help refugees settle in London. It was next to Manor House tube station, and every Friday after school we’d all pile into those small rooms. By ‘all’, I mean my mum and dad and us three siblings, then later my step-mum Karen and her children, my aunties Marilyn and Alison, their children, plus my dad’s brother Sonny and his family. Ten kids at least, assorted adults and the biggest vat of homemade chicken soup you’ve ever seen.

      Playing with my cousins was the highlight of each week. I don’t know how we all managed to fit into the flat and play happily together yet we did.

      ‘Stacey, stop mucking about and help your nana! Matthew, stop chasing Jemma and set a good example …’ My dad’s voice would rise above the melee, but we largely ignored him and carried on playing, safe in our family universe.

      ‘Bubbe, of course I’ll help you. Would you like me to sing as I lay the table?’ I’d shout above the din. ‘Bubbe’ is the traditional Jewish name for ‘Grandmother’. We’ve never been massively Jewish – we celebrate the Sabbath each week, of course, and Hanukkah, but that’s about it, these days. I wouldn’t dream of denying my family access to Christmas, Easter, Diwali or any festival outside Judaism.

      Nana’s eyes would twinkle and she’d shrug in that wholly Jewish way, which was permission enough for me to belt out my favourite chart hit of the moment as she stirred soup and fried dumplings ready for the feast – it went on through the evening due to lack of space.

      I had an ulterior motive. If I entertained the adults, made them laugh and sang songs to them, they gave me second or even third helpings. It was a totally primal instinct. If I acted like a performing seal, telling jokes, making everyone laugh, they’d throw me a fish! I really felt I was there for their pleasure, and what I got from it was more food and the feeling I could fit in with the adults.

      The first serving of chicken soup with kneidlach had the kids crammed round Nana’s cramped dining-table. Even a whiff of that distinctive smell takes me right back there, slurping the clear soup with its yellow stain from the chicken, the noodles, carrots and unbelievably tasty dumplings – if anyone left one I’d have it. The table was surrounded by random garden chairs, eight in total, though it only really fitted four.

      Next, the adults would eat their soup so we’d all swap over, though I’d always go back for more delicious soup – Jewish penicillin, as Nana called it. Then we’d have the main course, a roast chicken with yellow rice. No matter how many times my dad or I have tried to make Nana’s yellow rice, we have always failed to reproduce the warm spiced flavour. Most of the time we wouldn’t have pudding because by then Nana was too exhausted from cooking, but if we were lucky, I mean reeeally lucky, she’d make us meringues. It’s another family mystery as to how she got them so chewy on the inside and crunchy on the outside. I’ve never been able to master her recipe, and I don’t think Dad’s ever managed it either. Most of the time we got a fruit pop – a long stick of iced water and sugar – and were happy with that.

      Nana died aged eighty-six. She never got to see either of my boys. Zachary was born a couple of years after she passed, which, even after all this time, still makes me feel sad. Those evenings were legendary. In fact, it was an epic childhood, though by many people’s standards we had very little except each other. Nana never had a spare penny in her life, but if she had, she’d have given it to one of us children. She thought she had everything, though, because she was rich in family and love.

      My family has given me a sense of belonging that has carried me through all the hardships and times when I thought I wouldn’t make it. Their love and support have defined and shaped me. I’d be nothing without them. I know how lucky I am to have them. They are my tribe, my clan, my brethren.

      Growing up, I never really appreciated how close we all were, and it’s only since I’ve been a mum that I’ve realized how important family has been to me, and how I’d almost taken it for granted. For instance, Jemma and I used to fight loads. We argued so much that Dad built a fake wall out of plasterboard, which cut our shared room in half, including the window, to separate us. I was gutted because it meant that Jemma’s clothes weren’t so accessible for me to steal – that was what lots of our fights were about.

      The other part of me was thrilled to have a space of my own even though it was hardly bigger than a cardboard box. It meant I could spend hours on the phone to my friends and Jemma wouldn’t be able to snitch on me – another cause of our arguments. Despite that, as Jemma and I grew up we became the closest of sisters. I call her every day and now we’re best friends.

      Strong women run in my family. Nana, who was the daughter of Polish immigrants, brought up her four children single-handed and alone after my grandfather died when Dad was young. Nana Toby, as she called herself – she hated her real name ‘Mathilda’ – was progressive in her views. She let my dad build a darkroom in her cupboard when he became interested in photography, which later became his profession. Later, she looked after us three when Mum had to leave early in the morning for work. I was still at primary school before Mum and Dad divorced. Mum worked for the Department of Social Security while Dad was setting up his photography business, which meant that neither parent could be there in the mornings to get us ready for school.

      When СКАЧАТЬ