The ither day, an aul’ freen’ cam’ in-aboot, and she brocht wi’ her a twa-three back-numbers o’ Leopard. Fit a gran’ read! Ane o’ the letters caught my e’e. Here wis a mannie seekin’ tae ken gin onybody cwid tell him the wey tae mak’ Boston Cream.

An’ a’ at aince I wis back, och, near-han’ saxty year, an’ savourin’ the taste o’ simmer, wi’ a gless o’ Boston Cream. There’s nae ony drink tae sloke yer drouth like it! Twa lemons wid be chosen in the shoppie. They hid tae hae bonny unmarkit skins. Neist, the sugar wis ta’en oot. Rationing wis still wi’s, altho’ e war wis by, so thingies like sugar were hained wi’ canny care! Syne we, my sister an’ me, wis sent an eeran’ til e droggist’s shop, for we nott an unce o’ tartaric acid. Mechty, didna we feel gey important, speiring at e quine ahint e coonter! An’ files she wid ging awa’ ben e back and speir at the mannie himsel’. An’ he wid pop out o’ the mysterious depths o’ the back shoppie, an’ glower at us ower the tap o’ his glesses. “Tartaric Acid?” he wid speir. An’ we wid nod wir heids, feart-kin’ an’ nae kennin’ fit tae say. Syne awa’ he wid go an’ come back wi’ a wee fite packetie, a’ bonny folded. It wisna dear, jist coppers, as far as I min’. An’ awa’ hame we wid traivel, fair kinechtit wi’ oorsel’s. That sister o’ mine is a droggist hersel’, noo! I maun speir at her sometime for a pokie o’ tartaric acid, an’ see fit her answer is!! Back hame, oot wid come e yalla-an-fite bakin’ bowl. Wi’ her shairp knife,(the ane we were banned frae usin’!) wir mither cut aff e peel, thin, thin, nae tae lat the coorse-tastin’ pith into the bowl. Syne oot wid come the “squeezer”, as we ca’d it, tae get every laist drappie o’ juice oot o’ the lemons. Peel an’ juice in the bowl, Mither weighed oot a pun o’ wir precious sugar, then in went the twistie o’ tartaric acid. Syne cam’ twa pints o’ bilin’-het watter. Wi’ the spurtle, she wid steer roon’ an’ roon, makkin’ sure that a’ the sugar wis dissolved. We got a shottie an’ a’, but wir mither made sure that e mixture wisna ower het, for excited bairns micht splyter a bittie! Wi’ the lemon peel floatin’ on e tap, the bowlie wis covered up, and lat alane for twinty-fower hoors! A hale day an’ a nicht! Oh fit a lang weary wait! Foo aften we lifted e board abeen the bowl, an’ stuck a greedy fingerie in! Nae a’ that hygienic, bit fit aboot it! E neist day, aifter we hid domineered puir Mither wi’ cries o’ “Is’t ready yet?” she wid perform what I thocht wis a richt fairlie! On a big flat plate like we used for wir denner, she tipped frae the shell, the fite o’ an egg. Syne wi’ a fork, an’ haudin’ the plate in her han’, she whiskit up the egg-fite til a thick mass, near like cream! Syne intae the bowl it gaed, an’ got a steerie roon. Twa wee quinies were waitin’, an’ then we wid rin for twa glesses an’ the tinnie o’ Bicarb. Mither wid pour a wee suppie o’ the bree intae the glesses, an we wid fill them up wi’ watter. Syne a wee teaspoon o’ Bicarb, an’ steer an’ steer! Oh fit a gran’ soon it made, chyngin’ the mair ye steered! An’ there wis a fine fite frothy top on wir drinks, an’ a lang satisfyin’ swallae. Mither lifted oot the bitties o’ peel, an’ bottled the Boston Cream, an’ we ken’t that for e neist twa-three days onywye, we wid hae e best lemonade in e wardle!

Fan I got mairrit, my auldest sister gaed me ane o’ thae bookies wi’ different coloured pages, for keepin’ yer ain special recipes in. An’ ane o’ the first that I wrote in, wis Boston Cream! An’ twinty or so year doon the road, my loon speired at his mither, fit wye tae mak’ Boston Cream. And sae it gings on!

I think I’ll maybe drap a notie tae the mannie in e Leopard magazine..

Copyright: Text and Photographs, Grace Morrison