Category Archives: Winter

Que syrah, syrah

Que Sera, Sera,
Whatever will be, will be
The future’s not ours, to see
Que Sera, Sera
What will be, will be.
~ Doris Day, Que Sera Sera lyrics

Indulgence is…
walking in slippers on a rainy evening, feeling my wet toes wake and come to life. Feeling the wind tug on my umbrella, whipping around my cheeks. Sitting in a warm wine bar with Claire, sipping slowly a wide glass of spicy smooth syrah. Taking a brisk walk home beneath the silky black sky, face turned towards the now feathery sheet of drizzle, hands in pockets, body still warm. Arriving at home to smash garlic, grill chicken, zest a lemon, fry vegetables, cook pasta, crumble feta, grind black pepper, serve all atop oven-warmed plates. Watching 24 with Matt. Chatting in the lounge with John.

All in an evening.

Dreaming of life.

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What to doooo

The most remarkable thing about my mother is that for thirty years she served the family nothing but leftovers. The original meal has never been found.
~ Calvin Trillin

Sleepless sleep. Ever have that? When you sleep, and wake up feeling like you never slept. Or haven’t slept for about a week straight. Head still full of unresolved dreams and other matters of little connection to happiness. It’s painful, in what I imagine to be an old arthritic way.

I traipse then, into the kitchen, to spot: egg whites in a bowl. OK. The wheels in my brain start spinning, ever so slowly, until I hear: omelette, light and fluffy, relax, go slow.

What I do to the 2 egg whites, then: I add 1 whole egg, whisk it all with salt and pepper, and turn the resulting mixture into an omelette. (My experience of this is a good light omelette – kind of like it!)

The morning goes by, and I am still at home. Feels strange to spend Saturday morning at home. Feels strange not to be hanging out with someone, or on a bus, or walking to a meeting, or – you know – doing something more significant than just… nothing. I take out my papers, thinking I will do some work. I put them all away again without reading a single sentence. Forget work.

When afternoon finds me tired out from dancing to ridiculous music and vacuuming the house with Shake & Vac, I find a saucepan, I take out my chopping board. Fry garlic. Add leek rings, dried marjoram, fresh rosemary, saute it all. Add cubes of monkfish fillet, mind dwelling on how soft it feels to touch. Add water, milk, salt, egg, mustard, pepper, dribble of cream – letting nothing but my senses guide me. I eat soup standing in the kitchen, without bread, without music. A few minutes later, Paul rings and thus begins a good afternoon catching up on the phone.

What to do on an imsomniac night: trying to figure that out now. Not reaching conclusions. What do you do after you’ve tried counting sheep, marshmallows, lions and ballerinas – and still can’t sleep?

[edit] I decided to make my first ever batch of scones, after all. It worked out perfectly as I had the required half a cup of cream, 2 lemons and rosemary sprigs handy! I referred to this recipe, and tweaked it a little.

It is now 12.38am. I think I should try sleeping again. Goodnight.

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