My mother’s best advice: the secret to good pastry is cold wrists

When I was growing up, she rarely dispensed advice. Instead, I watched her closely, holding on to her quiet wisdom I often picture my mother that wild, hot summer we moved to the house of my childhood. She is 5ft 3in in the long grass, wearing a vest and a pair of small cut-off shorts. She is digging borders and battling the sticky bobs. She is telling me about the patch of tiger lilies and the cooking-apple tree; about the light speckling through the unkempt branches. “Glory be to God for da...

By Laura Barton