Two things which embody Hygge for me are: food lovingly made to share, and mothers. One does not need to have given birth to be a mother. Some people are naturally nurturing, and it is people like that I am thinking of. People who make your favourite food because you are coming to see them, and who share freely.
My Mother’s Chemistry
experiments in the oven,
a laboratory of smells,
of textures, of flavours.
cakes with earthquake crusts,
oozing moist chocolate,
scenting the 4.30 kitchen
just as we came home,
a chaos of satchels, duffle bags
bumping, stilled by aromas.
Apple pies with pastry roses,
yellow silken custard pooled
in the folds of the petals.
And Christmas, oh Christmas
in her kitchen, a harmony of spices,
of hot rum in the cake,
of brandy in the mince pies,
the once a year chicken
with oozing, pimpled skin,
my mothers’ maths was division,
five cuts, large for Dad, small for her,
three perfect angles for us.
I won’t make bread – she said,
suspicious of yeast movements
– no telling where it will end.
Vivien Jones
Poem with a Satsuma in it
There is no sunset can rival
the particular shade of its skin
no sunrise the pimpled texture
no noon-glow the zing.
There can never be too many
satsumas in poems,
each segment a stanza,
every metaphor a pip.
I open a book of them
and my mouth waters
even before I’ve tasted
the opening line.
My grand-daughter
can’t say the word,
just points
more, more, more
Carole Bromley
(first published in The Stonegate Devil Smith/Doorstop)
Harvest
My mother fed my father
home-grown berries lifted
from their beds of soft, pale straw.
She picked them, washed them,
packed them in a tub, brought them
from his garden where they grew.
Visiting times, she chattered
and fussed as she dipped them
one by one in unbleached sugar.
It was early in June,
the weather was warm.
The fruits of his last days
were passing sweet.
Abigail Elizabeth Ottley Wyatt
Angela Topping 
looks great!