Traditional flower mandala on the thigh

The ovens were lit at half three and I've been on my feet since, so forgive the smudges on this page. Dad's old peel is still leaning against the proving racks where you left it. I haven't moved it, because the handle still has your initials scratched into it and I can't bring myself to sand them off. Mr Okafor from the chandlery came in asking for the saffron buns again. I told him the saffron batch is spoken for, forty of them, each one with a flower pressed into the glaze for the Jessop wedding on Saturday.

You'll remember Mum's brass stamp. Four heart-shaped petals around a single dot, with a ring of little pricks round the edge. She pressed it into the dough before the second prove so the bun rose around the shape and the edges stayed crisp. You always said it looked like something a sailor would scratch on a rope. I've been using it all week, and I thought I had the knack of it until this morning, when the dough came up soft and the petals slumped into one another like wet cardboard.

I nearly binned the tray. Instead I sat on the back step with my cold tea and thought about Mum's hands, which were never quick but never wrong. So I went back in, pressed the stamp again, and let the dough rest an extra ten minutes before the oven. The last tray came out with every petal sharp and the yellow glaze gone glossy around the ring. I've put one aside in a paper bag for you. It'll be stale by the time the post gets to Leeds, but come home at Easter and I'll make you another.

The window's gone grey now, and the sill is dusted white where I've been leaning on it. Bring the peel when you come, the one with your initials. I'll find a use for it.