Garden notes: Into the kitchen

It is in August that things begin to fall. An overripe plum from a tree. Excess apples, shaken off in the wind. The tops of onions, still green, collapse into the spaces between their bulbs which are still swelling in the sun. And it is at this point, every year, that things begin to come into the kitchen in earnest. New potatoes, boiled to floury perfection with a sprig of mint, before being crushed with chopped scallions and butter. A couple of leaves from each of the summer cabbages. The first french beans, tender and slim. The umpteenth courgette. Tomatoes, by the cornucopian handful. Beetroot tops, swede tops, radish tops. The first of the salads from the second sowing. Things to be eaten as soon as possible, keeping the time between picking and plating as short as we possibly can. I haven’t visited the greengrocer’s for ages, and have no intention of doing so for a good while yet.

At just the same time, the preserving has begun. Traditionally, this is the time when the children pile the windfalls so high in the larder that I throw my hands up in despair at ever getting through them before the brown spreads from their bruises. Traditionally I have a mountain of overgrown courgettes to fight my way to the bottom of, having ignored them for a day too long. Traditionally I look at all the luscious green herbs and leaves and wonder how on earth I am going to capture them. In all likelihood, this will happen again in a week or so. You’ll find me behind a wall of freshly washed jars, presiding over three or four bubbling pots of chutney and jam, hot and bothered and wishing I was outside.

But not yet. So far, I am winning. My approach this year is to go on the offensive against the rising tide of the home gardener’s glut. Each day, while watering and weeding, I identify a little something or other to put up for the winter. I pick it after tea: a few stems of rhubarb, or perhaps a trugful of nasturtium leaves. Then into the kitchen I go, for a post supper potter with some vinegar, or a little oil. Sometimes there is sugar involved. Often there are spices. And less than an hour later I emerge with my prize: a couple of jars of pickled beetroot. A few pots of jam. Greens and herbs, pounded into a chlorophyll paste to brighten the darkest winter meal. One little victory each evening, set on the larder shelves.

Of course, we don’t grow anything like enough food to keep ourselves going the whole year long. I have tremendous admiration for those who do, and perhaps one day I might achieve that. My aim is different, although very much in the same spirit: to waste as little as possible, and make as much of what we have as I can. There is so much pleasure in opening a jar of bottled fruit in February and knowing that you grew it. I pace our progress through the larder, making the preserves last the whole year long until the next harvest is coming in. Just as the marrows are ready, we are opening the very last jar of chutney. So far, this season, I am feeling remarkably on top of it all.

You know that it won’t last, though, don’t you? Because the beans are about to start coming out of our ears, and the apples will fall by the panful. Already I’m closing my eyes just a fraction as I walk past the still full bed of summer cabbages, and thinking about all the sauerkraut jars I’m going to need. The rosehips are well on their way and that orangey floral syrup is too much of an autumn treat to be missed. And then there’s the sheer quantity of berries that six people can pick in an afternoon, even given free reign to eat as many as they like. The tide is coming, I tell you. Soon I’ll be on the defensive again, wooden spoon at the ready. It’s on its way, the results of a year in the garden, flowing straight into the kitchen.

Garden notes: Deep sleep

No spinning wheels just yet, but plenty of gooseberry thorns to leave their tales upon my arms and legs. You have to fight your way past them to reach the hidden treasure. The beanstalks have raced to the top of their poles; the jerusalem artichokes tower above the height of the pergola and Ilse lost herself out there, like a little Thomasina Thumb, yesterday afternoon.

It is no wonder that so many fairy tales are about the garden and the wild woods beyond. After the long dreary winter of pottage and salt meat, who wouldn’t trade their child for a basket of sweet salad? We clear the woods to make a space for our tender plants to grow and then grow they do, becoming a jungle of their own. There could well be giants lurking in the nettles, tall and fierce as they are. Crack open one of my hens’ eggs and pure gold resides inside. Gardens are the very stuff of life itself: magical, exciting, hard work and yet ultimately out of our control. I love this time of year, when the plants are bigger than the weeds and it is all a glorious, fruitful mess. A cornucopia of marrows and cabbage, juicy spring onions and rocket which runs to seed faster than we can eat it. Even those tiny lettuces now tower over the beets, their thick stalks running white with bitter sap. The hens devour them, and I plant more out in their place.

Ben’s talents in the garden come to the fore just now: vanquishing the biting brambles with a blade and a younger sibling to be his knave. This is the kind of weeding he likes: thorny and fast with blatantly wicked prey. Seb is the best at turning over the plate-like leaves of the nasturtiums and squashing the yellow clusters of caterpillar eggs beneath. Fliss likes to harvest with me, filling baskets with blackcurrants and raspberries before the greedy birds take more than their share, and Ilse will do anything to speed me along so that we can play a game together, or read a story on the lawn.

We’ve been reading lots of fairy tales lately – Rapunzel, Jack and the Beanstalk, Tom Thumb. Then we look around the garden and see why there is a myth of a bean which grows in a single night, or a girl whose mother craved greens. As we do so, I sneak in another little task: tying up the sweet peas, or weeding between the onions. She helped me cut the lavender on Saturday, and lent me her finger to hold the knots which tied it into bunches. They’re hanging from the airier on the landing, and as you walk upstairs the air fills with its sweet, clean, heavy scent. Once it’s dry we’ll shake it into little cotton sachets and make Christmas presents from them, to scent drawers and linen presses.

Just now, though, it is fulfilling an entirely different purpose. The end of term comes with its own particular tiredness: fretful and sleep-inducing all at once. Yet the lavender is working its magic: I’m not alone in dropping off the moment my head hits the pillow. We are sleeping deeply and well, thanks to those bunches of herbs hanging in the space between the bedrooms. I can’t account for the dreams of the others, but mine are punctuated by images of the garden: of brambles to be slain, tall meadows to be shorn, and bounty to be brought in and devoured.

The other side of rain

Wet washing hung over the banisters. Macintosh-clad children cycling through the puddles, splashing their bare legs with gritty water. Knitting indoors and not out. Trays of second sowings languishing on windowsills. Toes which are too cold and then, once slippered, too hot. Rainy days in June, when we had hoped for sun.

And yet. Rainy days in summer have their own peculiar charms. The other side of rain is pea and lettuce soup for supper, fragranced with fresh mint. More shades of green than I can name, just outside the window. Bejewelled peonies that only I am traipsing out to see. A cool day to turn gooseberries and elderflowers into jam – and another excuse for buttered scones. Guilt-free time with a book while the weeds dance under the falling droplets. Fewer qualms about children stuck indoors, revising. No need to use the watering can for a week or so. The knowledge that tomorrow might well be a scorcher.

All told, I’ll settle for today. After all, I waited all winter for June. Rainy days or not, it is slipping by so quickly. Soon the holidays will be upon us, soon the children will be another school year older. Soon there will be a week when we spill onto the lawn and picnic thrice a day. But today the rain is falling and, all things considered, there are worse things that could happen.

Garden notes: Soak

The house seems to double in size at this time every year. Time for a cup of tea? Let’s have it in the garden. A bit of homework to finish off? Do it under the apple tree. Where’s Ilse’s teddy? She probably left it on the lawn. I can’t actually remember the last time we sat in the living room, given that we choose the green carpeted one for preference every time. Even chilly evenings and rainy days find us in the kitchen, looking out over the garden. Our lives have shifted towards the back of the house, where the sun shines longest.

Now that the trees are all in leaf, the little plants in my veg plot wait eagerly for the sun to swing round and touch their outstretched arms. They don’t have long to wait: there is only a short window of time in which I can give them a good soaking with the hose. A tiny northern tribe of bluetits finds me at it and swoops beneath the arc of droplets, gathering the worms which have been tricked into thinking it is raining. They flutter and hop about with surprising daring, daubed as they are with charcoal and woad, and I have to take care not to swipe them with the water. Once the swampy celery is sated, its roots damp once again, I can head off to do other things in the sun. This is the time of year when the house is sadly neglected, and I look for jobs outside at every opportunity. A spot of weeding? Yes please. Mowing the lawn again? If you insist. Picking the salad for supper, collecting the eggs, finding a patch of nettles to cut down… I’ll take any outdoor job that’s going.

The garden is at its very best, with a full complement of little plants in ordered rows. They aren’t at the stage of sprawling yet, or hiding trouble under luxuriant leaves, but they are safely out of the seedling stage. The slugs, though still a nuisance, hold less horror for me now. The pigeons can’t wipe out the peas in a single feeding. Everything is coming along nicely, and some are even feeding us with delightful regularity. I would be tired of lettuce, if it wasn’t so deliciously thick and juicy. The rocket disappears by the handful each time I bring a basket of it to the kitchen table. Little radishes are rinsed off under the garden tap and eaten then and there. And spinach and eggs are a match made in heaven: a point proven almost daily in this house.

The tomatoes are in flower, the peas not far behind. The potatoes are so tall I won’t have earth enough to bury them, but I’ll do the best I can. New spring cabbages, to cut and come again all summer, are very nearly ready. And then there are the slow growers: the savoys and brussels, the swedes and parsnips. The carrots, appearing once more from nowhere (there’s magic afoot in that patch, I tell you) have quite a way to go. But there’s plenty to keep us going, and the flavours keep on changing the whole season long. We’ve been pulling rhubarb for a while, and now the little gooseberries are almost at their peak. Seb is keeping a beady eye on the strawberries, and on the thieves that steal them. And to keep it all changing, to keep it even fresher than it already is, are the herbs. I pick them by the handful: thyme and oregano on roast chicken, chives in our spinach omelettes. Rosemary with tender spring lamb. Mint-boiled new potatoes.

What it is about the sun which makes it so compelling? It pulls us out of doors, as if by sitting and soaking it up we could grow big and strong just like our plants. As if, by being in its presence, we’ll be made well again. As if we could bottle up the warmth and take it winterward with us. We can’t, of course. Only the plants can do that for us: in the trees which become logs, the fruits and stems and leaves which become our food.  I know all this, but it won’t stop me trying. A bit of mending? I’ll do that on the garden bench.

When evening comes and the sun departs it is as if it was never really there. In fact, I need a jumper of some sort to keep me warm. Where did I leave my cardigan? Oh look – it’s on the garden bench, soft and brown and wonderfully warm from soaking up the sun.

Garden notes: Eggs

The new hens seem to have settled in remarkably well. I keep expecting to find the nest boxes empty, but no – every day I’m greeted with a full complement of eggs. After the first flush already in their systems, they were meant to pause for a while, but I shan’t complain. We love eggs.

There’s been a fair bit of gloom around these past couple of days: low clouds and glowering skies. I’ve been weeding surreptitiously, hoping the weather gods won’t spot me in amongst the onions before I finish the task. Keeping my fingers crossed for warmth, and a couple of dry hours, I’ve been rewarded by some pretty solid stretches of rain. But. But – the beans have popped up along their rows of canes, and there’ll be no stopping them now. The sweet peas have poked their little noses out above the soil. I keep finding Fliss nibbling radishes as she wanders around the garden, nose in a book. And there’s been enough dry weather to get out and bring in the early harvest: great bowlfuls of sweet new lettuce leaves, cut-and-come again chard tops, peppery-hot rocket. And eggs. Lots and lots of eggs.

They are suggestible things, those unassuming little ovoids. They sit there, meek and fragile in their dun shells, but it only takes a sharp crack to reveal their vibrant yolks. I know I should be setting some aside, saving some of this late spring flush by slipping them into the barrel of isinglass. But they whisper to me from across the kitchen. There is all sorts of eggy goodness happening here, now. Breakfasts are eggs: poached, boiled and fried. My solitary lunch: a greedy bowl of new salad dipped in a rich and wobbly mayonnaise. And supper? Well, I’ll blame it on the steady rain which began at twelve and carried on past bedtime. The mercury dropped, a chill wind blew in from the east, and the menu changed. I felt it was one of the last good custard days of the season.

Which led to a pudding, simply to carry the custard. In the end we went for an Exmoor In and Out: last autumn’s softly wrinkled bramleys under a layer of dense almond sponge. It was quite happy cooking in the Aga with the fish pie while I made the custard. This is the kind of cooking I do best: abandoning something to the gentle heat of the oven while I stir the silken pan of custard and think of other things. Simple and extravagant, elegant and childish, it is one of my favourite things to eat. Comfort, in a bowl.

There was another soul in need of a little comfort, yesterday. Seb had just returned, tired and filthy, from an outward bound adventure with his pals. And although he didn’t show it, although he was talking nineteen to the dozen, I suspected there was a little pang of sorrow lurking somewhere near his tummy. So what’s a mum to do, but make a favourite tea and draw a hot and bubbly bath? To find ways of reminding him that, all in all, there are some good things about being home again. Seeing his spot filled at the dinner table by a pink-cheeked, pyjama-clad boy made me realise how I’d missed him. So between one thing and another, it was a very happy suppertime indeed.

And faced with eight more eggs this morning? I’ve lots of ideas up my sleeve. The cooler custard nights might be dwindling, but quiche season is just beginning, and the time for cold boiled eggs in picnic baskets is surely just around the corner. Lay on, ladies. I’m not complaining.

Lovely ladies

There was a changing of the guard this week, with the arrival of six new hens from a local farm. We set their boxes in the vacated hen house, having moved the older girls into the tractor for a few weeks, and they were out and exploring their ladders and perches in no time. I think they like their new home: in the morning we found an egg apiece in the nest boxes. Then in the tractor we found Ilse’s hen, dead, having quite literally dropped off the perch in the night. There were a few tears, as befits the passing of an old pet: the last of our original trio of hens. But we’d known it was coming: she stayed close to home and ruffled her feathers into a cosy eiderdown even in the sun. Ben had built her a step to help her in and out of the house, and she had special permission to sleep in the nest box at night. Seeing this, I’d added an extra to my original order of five new birds, anticipating the need to replace her. Of course she didn’t know that, and of course she was just a hen, but she was a lovely, gentle, inquisitive old lady, and her timing felt quite dignified, somehow.

We motored over to the Dales later that day, to have lunch with John’s mother, Ida, and walk up onto the moorland. I like it best in the autumn, when the tops are purple with swathes of flowering heather, but this time the fresh green growth only hinted at such beauty. The ewes were up there with their lambs, already grown sturdy and strong. The sheep were beginning to shed their fleeces, leaving handfuls of rough wool lying here and there, and as she picked some up my mother in law told me about a woman in the village, blind with age, wanting to pass her spinning wheel and knowhow on to someone new. What a lovely gift to give. It made me think about the all those millions of acts, big and small, that people do for one another. And as we talked we dropped down into a little valley full of wild garlic and forget me nots, where the bees were out gathering pollen with their sisters.

Even though there was no purple on the moor, we’d bought a little with us in celebration of Ida’s birthday. A bunch of lilacs from our massive shrub in York, further along than those in the chilly Dales. Mauve cards from the children, made by shaving coloured pencil leads over paper and gently brushing the pigments across the page. A violet peg bag, made long ago with floral sprigs and polka dots and satin ribbon – and Ida in mind. Little gifts, gathered together with care.

In turn she sent us home full of roast dinner and sticky toffee pudding, with a jar of her excellent marmalade, a stack of Good Housekeepings and a few balls of wool to transfer to the growing pile of little knits. And on the way I got started on a granny square, crocheting the way Mrs Roberts had taught me just a couple of weeks earlier. Home again, I found a postcard on the doormat from Mrs Eve, and then there were the hens, new and old, to check on. We made a quick supper of the pork pies Ida had wrapped up for us, with lettuce from the garden and a bit of bread and butter, feeling glad for a day without any cooking, before shooing the little ones off to bed. An easy evening, at the end of a delightful day. Really, it’s no wonder I couldn’t help but think that there are a lot of lovely ladies in my life.

Garden notes: maying

May is such a polite month. Out goes moody April, with her cold shoulders and stormy temper and in steps gentle May, all maypoles and morris men. It is the month of maying, too, as the old song goes: of love and courtship, steady and hopeful. Time marches on and yet some things never change. The old songs are sung, the old dances stepped lightly out on the grass, and now my girls join in while Meg and I look on and tap our feet. Even the little ones know their places, know to wait their turn to weave in and out amongst the others, and to hold their own strand high above their heads so the bigger girls can pass beneath.

It’s the month of maying in the garden, too – of asking permission and getting it. May we play out after supper, Mother? May we have our lunch in the tree house? May we wear our bathers and splash in a bucket of water? Yes, yes and oh, if you must. It’s hard to deny anyone anything in May, as long as they ask nicely. I’m asking nicely, too. May I harden off the brassicas? May I put in the french beans, and trust to a warm spell to bring them on?

Even the plants are behaving themselves: sitting where they’re put, respecting one another’s space. They’ll sprawl around later, full grown and uncouth, when they think I’m too busy to notice. September can be like that. But in May they are oh so polite. Even the weeds are tentative and easy to deal with. I hoe them down, knowing what tricks they’d get up to later if I didn’t.

Some things are bolder, barely waiting for a reply before pushing themselves up, up into the warm air. The peas are making steady progress, in synch with one another, neat and tidy in their little rows. They’ll start grabbing at the poles soon, but for now they are being good. The shy bluebells are putting on their little show, cool and modest in the shadow of the apple, taking their turn before the branches above burst into bloom. The ash isn’t at all sure, but then it never is, and always waits until the very end of the month to put on leaf. Perhaps it is just being kind, and letting the gooseberries swell before it ushers them into semi-shade. Nor is the may itself in blossom, although the hedges are bright with new leaves. We’ll know the warm weather is here to stay once its pink and white froth celebrates the season.

The only thing which isn’t polite is the list of tasks I want to tackle each day. Planting, sowing, weeding, watering, knitting, writing, making music… Those are just the things I long to do; add to that the jobs which must be done – the cleaning and cooking and washing and ironing. They jostle in my head, these jobs, each wanting to be at the fore, until I order them all on a piece of paper and there they stay until I can cross them off, one by one. A May day is never long enough. I could spend twice the time on each of these labours of love, spurred on by sunshine and soft breezes.

Sometimes it feels as though the only thing to do is to make things simpler. In this spirit, I’ve combined tea and supper into a single meal: high tea, served picnic-style on the patio. A jug of creamy milk from the cows who are so happy to be in the fields again. A pot of tea. Bread and butter, cake, sardines and radishes, and each plate lined with the tenderest, earliest lettuce leaves. I asked very nicely, and took them very gently, and left plenty to grow on. The little plants said I may. For who could say no, on a day like this?

 

Prunings

The end of March can be one of those wonderfully useful times of year, for gardeners. The first, tentative steps towards the autumn’s harvest are about to be surpassed by a veritable stampede as life in the garden leaps back into motion. Everything is starting to grow: the early seedlings, the spears of broccoli, the tops of the parsnips still waiting in their bed. The beginning and the end of the cycle of life in the veg patch, all mixed up.

I found myself, on Good Friday, with two rows of new potatoes to plant and a bed still full of brassicas. Not to be deterred, I decided that it was time to use them up. We pulled them all and picked off the smallest, most tender leaves, which yielded enough for several meals. The rest we hung from the top of the chicken run for the hens to peck at. They laid an egg each, over the following days, including the odd double-yoker. A brilliant exchange, in my opinion.

Spuds in and brassicas munched, it didn’t take me too long to spy another garden job. It isn’t only my veg which are growing again; the weeds are making their presence felt, too. I attacked them with strategy this time, seeking a return for my labour. As a result, we have had what some are politely calling an experimental week in the kitchen. It turns out that Hairy Bittercress is aptly named. And that Ground Elder doesn’t really taste like spinach – a truth which I feel the need to test every year, for some reason.

I blame optimism, and the fact that I really don’t like waste. We eat everything up, around here, emptying the larder into a pot of soup almost every week, and seeing what colour it turns. We save empty treacle tins to plant seedlings in, and toilet rolls to start off our tomatoes. Pamphlets are cut up for collages and decoupage. Bottles go back to the shop for half a penny, and the remains of each Sunday roast is minced into shepherd’s pie, before the bones are boiled to make a nutritious stock.

Edible weeds, then, just beg to be eaten. Some are disappointing: we’ll stick to proper cress from now on. But others are just waiting to come into their own. There’s a little patch of nettles behind the tree house which I insist aren’t weeds at all, given that they are growing in the right place. They bring in the butterflies, yes, but before then they have other uses. I’ll be pulling my gloves on before long, and taking my gathering basket down to that end of the garden. The time for nettle soup is nearly upon us, and with a dash of nutmeg and a swirl of cream it’s as good as any other.

In the rush of this time of year, between the sowing and the weeding, I usually forget the little bit of pruning that’s required. That of the odd thing which is meant to be left to flower on last year’s growth: the forsythia, for instance. I was in no danger of forgetting this year, though – it is a beast of a shrub, eight feet tall and almost as wide. Luckily we all approve of the use I put those prunings to. They’re on the kitchen table, in the living room, and in front of the little window at the end of our hall. Anywhere I can tuck a vase, really. Daffodil-yellow, twiggy and fresh, ready to welcome April into our home.

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A moveable feast

No Easter is quite like any other. It flits about, this feast, like the birds between the trees and the ground, gathering twigs, building new partnerships. Some years it’s sun-soaked in a predictable, comfortable sort of way: one of a succession of days in the garden, sowing and hoeing and mowing the lawn. Others, like this year, it is as unpredictable as spring can be, moving from showers to bright skies and back within the space of an hour. And sometimes, rarely, like the time we stayed in Appleby, there is an unexpected fall of snow and we spend the morning sledding and building soggy snowmen which melt before the day is out.

It feels right, that Easter weather is so unknown. After all, nobody knew what was happening that first Easter. Christmas is different: people knew, even the first time, what was going on. A fact which is reflected in the depth of our traditions: in plum puddings and roast goose, in presents under the tree and a visit from Father Christmas. We know how to celebrate a birth.

That first Easter, though, very little was known. The killing of God took place, and yet the world didn’t end. For three days there was mourning. And then nothing but an empty tomb, an absence of a body, a mystery. Nobody knew what was happening, until, somehow, they did.

The only fixed things in our Easter celebration are a trip to church and a chocolate egg for each of the children – and even the eggs are brought home by John. Unlike the run up to Christmas, Easter is a time when there is very little for me to do in the way of fulfilling the children’s expectations. Which is a very good thing, given all the other tasks I am enjoying just now: all the sowing and planting, weeding and planning. There’s the spring cleaning to come, too, the washing of windows and curtains. The sweep to book, once the last fire has gone out. Outgrown clothes to send to the jumble sale.

All of which has the lovely effect of making everything we do an added bonus. This year the children blew eggs, and painted them with watercolours. I bought some twisted willow inside, pruned last autumn and left over from the Christmas wreaths, and they hung the eggs from its branches. Twiggy and bare, full of unexpected loops and tangles, they have space for all sorts to dangle in their embrace. Ilse had to be shown how to blow the eggs, which made me wonder how long it’s been since we’ve done this. It’s not as though we’ve done nothing in the meantime: sometimes we boil eggs and draw on them with pencils, making monochrome designs. Other times we might slice their tops off, stuff their insides with cotton wool and wait for a full head of cress to grow above their funny faces. One year a neighbour, who was watering the plants while we went away, left a treasure trail of tiny foil-wrapped eggs around the house, chocolatey and precious.

I found the time to make some hot cross buns while the children were busy with their eggs, and we had them as an easy Easter breakfast. In the evening Mother cooked for us all, making the sort of feast that the children save room for, guessing there will be more than one pudding. There was. It was a happy day, this year, relaxed and joyous, full of laughter and silliness.

There have been other Easters which have not been so glad: as I say, it’s a moveable feast. Changeable as the season it falls in, with rain and sleet as well as sunshine in the forecast. Each one unique, each one met afresh, but always full of love. While all else may change, that part never does. Happy Easter.

Crisp

All it takes is for the sun to shine, and every little detail is thrown into relief. Where did that rhubarb come from, unfurled so soon from soil-bound tender buds? I didn’t see it yesterday, trudging through the gloom to empty the bucket of peelings, yet here it is, crisp and pink against the bluest sky. My mouth waters: already in my mind it is full-grown and pulled, chopped into inch-long sticks and dipped in a saucer of sugar. Already it is boiled in a copper pan, with thin slivers of ginger, and tucked into the larder: an edible memory of just this sort of day. Clear and cold and crisp.

Everything is heightened, today. The garden is loud with birds, the magpies and blackbirds and territorial robins competing with the steady hens in their worship of the welcome yellow sun. They trill and cluck. It has been a very long and very grey winter, this year. There has been a lot of rain, and no snow to lift the landscape. But now the sun is out even the mud sparkles, and the ridges left by my boots yesterday are semi-solid with frost. I took a little longer over my outdoor chores. Hanging out the washing is a task which can be stretched as long as the line I peg it to. The air was cold on my fingertips, the sun warm on my back. Later, the sheets smelt wild, half-dried in the clean fresh air.

This is a day for fine black tea, not dulled by milk. This is a day for toast and marmalade, the bread allowed to cool so that the butter lies upon it in thick cream slabs, protecting it from damp. Lately the shops have been full of seville oranges, and today they have come into their own. I count my  jars greedily, and plan to make some more.

This is a day for sewing, for pressing new seams clean and straight, sprinkled under a hot iron. The settee has fresh cushions, birds and flowers against a clean white background. This is a day for gardening, for turning the green lawn over into something darker. This is a day for making music, for high notes cutting through the still house. A day for opening windows, and letting the dry air sweep swiftly over everything. A day for reading a book on a window seat, blanket and hot water bottle to hand. This is the sort of day on which I want to do everything, and can’t, and have to choose just one favoured task over all the others. The kind of day I would like all days to be. The kind of day winter was made for.

Late in the afternoon I set a match to the newsprint and watch it curl and blacken, delicate flames growing bold. They lick at the kindling and make it crackle. The sun disappears, over the edge of the earth. I hope it will come back. Now that it is gone, everything changes. The time for marmalade has passed. Instead I set to making a huge fish pie, smoky and smooth. I serve it with wilted greens: the blueish tops of sprouts that grow like algae in the winter beds. The cream of the pie is salty and soothing. It will send us all early to our beds. Yet there is an undercurrent to it, wild and clean. A day in Whitby, visiting the smokehouses after a chilly morning paddle. The smell of kippers coming home with us as we journey over the free and windy moor. Before I settle down to sleep, I make a note to book rooms in a boarding house in May, beside the sea. Then I say a prayer for another crisp day tomorrow, and sleep deeply and well.

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