Picking up where I left off

What I’ve cooked, ate, busied myself with and bought. Weekly chapters of a life that puts home and the kitchen table front & centre of my everyday.

Sunday 13th April

The run of early sunshine has broken, giving way to skies more in keeping with April & its longstanding nod to showers. The skies have not yet split at the seams but the forecast for the foreseeable is intermittent downpours and temperatures dialled down again. Instead of beating a path to the park with the larks, I stay between the sheets, proofing my scribbles from last week ahead of tentatively sharing them here.

I lose an hour to the attic, a vast space that stretches to the furthest corners of our home and where life from the last thirty years finds a resting place. Intention to sort the wheat from the chaff up there is thwarted by time machines at every turn; pages, items and toys able to catapult me back to the magical years spent raising my babies to adulthood. Celebratory cards made across infant years, with promises of toast in bed and good behaviour for a day. A letter from the tooth fairy, folded inside a tiny wooden pot specifically for baby teeth as they dislodged, and tucked beneath a child’s bedtime pillow in anticipation of a visit and coins left. Dog eared picture books, pages turned by tiny hands as I read the stories on repeat each night. Shoes no bigger than my palm, broderie anglaise dresses able to fit a doll, football boots still muddy from their last outing two decades ago. I wander memory lane, turning over a postcard that reminds me the days may be long but the years are short.

To coincide with these Easter holidays we’re in the thick of, dinosaurs dot the indoor shopping centre in the city, a presumed crowd puller for those scratching their heads with school aged children. Mum & I are taking my nephew, his fascination with these prehistoric creatures and wonder at the world through three year old eyes a tonic for all. It’s an age I would take mine back to in a heartbeat, the incessant why’s and babbling chatter irrepressible. I pay attention to the route as we fall in stride with his little legs rather than my usual hurried pace, eyes peeled for landmarks we can talk more about; the huge clock face on the market hall clock tower, statues that tower over us as we pass by and the colourful graffiti deserved of its own gallery, instead adorning the many hoardings erected whilst the city undergoes another cycle of change.

I am greedy for a later than planned lunch when we return and grateful for planning ahead when I shopped. Olive ciabatta, benefiting from a few short minutes in the hot oven of our Aga until crisped, is cut in half lengthways. The underside is smeared with pesto knocked up in haste and for which I rely on my own version, omitting the nuts and where garlic is roasted first, neither of which impair the end result. Salami is piled, curds of burrata pressed against them with a spoon, a fistful of lambs lettuce piled atop. Salt flakes, a grind of the pepper mill, a slick of early harvest olive oil. It is devoured in the company of one, a feast for the senses where salty olives find their way into most mouthfuls and each bite tastes of sunnier shores.

Supper takes shape by way of eggs on toast, hardly the Sunday fayre of many but soothing to the soul. A deep pan of scalding water set to a simmer, farm fresh eggs with yolks the colour of a setting sun and doorstops of sourdough toasted and running with butter. The heavy crittall door to the garden is thrown wide as I settle at the kitchen bench to eat, birdsong in full throttle ahead of taking up their posts for the evening. I can pick out the song thrush and the noisy chatter of jackdaws but rely on the wisdom of my brilliant neighbour, fluent it would seem with each chorus that draws close on play each day to identify the rest of the feathered choir.

Monday 14th April

Another day at the grindstone. There is a veil of ground frost underfoot at the meadow, lacy webs from overnight spinners exaggerated by a powder coating of moisture. Catkins, tricked into believing spring has sprung is abundant with its mass of fluffy buds. The river burbles as we follow its riverbank, shallow waters home to many species that remain from sight.

In a bid to rally against any ails, a green smoothie is first up on today’s menu. My take on a blindingly brilliant offering from the breakfast table at Heckfield Place, it relies on cucumber, spinach, celery and the juice of apples as the bedrock to this charming drink. Lime - both zest and juice - leaves of mint and a grating of fresh ginger ignite the senses as it’s blended into one glorious green liquor.

I relish the absence of stop start traffic when the school holidays are underway. None of the bumper to bumper fifty minute commute into a city an otherwise short twelve minute run any other hour of a day. Time spent in the office is precious and not to be wasted and I shirk losing hours to chatter with colleagues in favour of getting on with the job in hand.

An invitation for afternoon tea as part of a county wide networking event was accepted when hunger was running high; today I am less inclined for fancy plates of scones and savoury tarts and finger sandwiches. It’s full of the usual faces, those movers & shakers from the business community along with longstanding stalwarts of such events and conversations feel genuine rather than forced. I graze on egg mayonnaise sandwiches on repeat, more for the nostalgia they serve, since there is little that can be done to elevate this staple of a twentieth century buffet table to lofty heights, and a sausage roll, the ratio of pork to pastry right for once, is tasty enough to reach for another.

Dusk is settling when I catch up with a friend to walk the parkland later, my trio of dogs behaving for once. It’s a friendship where conversation is not limited to the shallows and I volunteer a jumping off point that we dissect and discuss for the duration, wandering the undulating terrain of the park until the shadows of overnight darkness creep into the pathways ahead.

Supper is once again an afterthought, where I scrabble in the pantry cupboard stretching floor to ceiling for inspiration. Pasta piques interest and I have some pesto leftover from yesterday. A tin of tuna, handfuls of spinach from the bag bought for this mornings green drink and a grating of farmhouse cheddar is hardly haute cuisine but delivers. It’s a recipe I leaned into across the children’s early years, where pesto is turned through nubs of rigatoni before stirring through the leaves of spinach that wilt against the heat of the pasta. Tuna, cheese, seasoning and another good stir. A bowl of sentimental comfort that I fork idly with one hand whilst turning pages of interest with a greasy thumb.

Tuesday 15th April

Not ten hours have passed before I am back in the same parkland, another friend in tow to chew the fat with. She brings the rain with her, a welcome break for the new buds of spring after perpetually dry skies of recent weeks, but not the weather of choice to be outdoors within.

Tulips sit in the shops, a myriad of pretty pastel shades all looking for a home; I opt for mauve, tucking them in amongst foliage from the garden poked into an enamel jug harking back to the fifties. Dragging the outdoors in always cheers, never more so when ominous skies roll overhead. They clear as we move through the morning and against a backdrop of hide and seek sunshine I commit myself to the seasonal duties of spring cleaning.

I make a pilgrimage to no less than three butchers on the hunt for an organic chicken, one that’s enjoyed a longer life and roamed freely. My daughter baulks at the £21 price tag of one, and I’m inclined to agree. I find another, of no great size but closer to budget. Fridays thought as to a roasted chicken and caesar salad alongside has percolated in my thoughts ever since, burnished croutons soaked in the cooking fat from the bird and a slick of dressing distracting me from thinking of much else when giving consideration to the next meal sitting.

We congregate at mum’s later, a non negotiable Tuesday night supper and one she never fails to cater admirably for. Stretched across five generations, with some seventy years dividing the young from the older, conversation never runs dry. An Easter hunt is underway when I arrive, the boisterous three year old crouched amongst mum’s generously filled flowerbeds in search of the Easter bunny’s bounty. We settle to tallagio chicken, a rich sauce of this fine Italian cheese muddled with pesto and vine tomatoes tucked between the jointed bird. This is family time at its best, with uncensored chatter and an undercurrent of unconditional love binding us all.

Wednesday 16th April

Much as I relish the half light slowly swallowing up the overnight darkness as day breaks, this time of the morning holds none of the cheery skies that unfold as we move towards more respectable waking hours. The meadow looks for all as though we’ve rewound to October, a sepia landscape and skyline erased by dirty cloud. The dogs don’t notice of course; all they care about are the balls I throw on repeat as we walk the perimeter, the river gurgling as it bounces over a rocky riverbed.

My day is one of appointments, this fortnight of the Easter holidays finding plenty with time on their hands to address life admin. Intentions to scramble eggs on toast at breakfast were thwarted due to my impossibly errant time-keeping; instead these became an early lunch.

When done right, where pale gold butter is stirred through and the eggs softly puddle in a pan with only a whisper of heat beneath, they are fit for a king. I season only once served, a pinch of salt flakes & quick twist of the pepper mill all that’s needed. A slender slice of toasted sourdough dripping with unpasteurised butter is the perfect foil by my way of thinking, the juxtaposition of soft egg with crunchy bread a lifelong love.

A pounding head drives me to take refuge between the sheets, eyes shut & willing the painkillers to take hold, for I have a rendezvous with friends this evening and too many times a bad head derails plans. A local gastro pub plays host to tonight’s catch up, where the food is average at best it turns out. I’ve had more memorable pizzas at 4am and the service comes with neither a smile nor speed, but conversation outshines these shortcomings. Friends that have traversed the decades since school have the ability to fill up my cup.

Thursday 17th April

Try as I might, perpetual disorganisation continues to haunt me. I grab at ingredients from the fridge as I hurry out the door, a menagerie of bits and bobs that I’ll somehow assemble as lunch later. Lambs lettuce can always be relied on, so too a tasty olive oil and lemon. The rest of the dish will rely on feta and shallot, olives & an overlooked half of cucumber. The dogs eye roll when we pull up to daycare, their hopes of another long walk in the woods dashed. Much like when the children were small and attended nursery across their infant years, they too protested until my back was turned when they would knuckle down to the job in hand: one of mischief and social development.

It’s a foot to the floor kind of day, tying up loose ends and trying in vain to return everyone’s calls & emails before we shut up shop for the extended Easter bank holiday.

In the spirit of springtime and with the last of the promised sunshine before skies turn bleak to coincide with the weekend, I knock up a salad for supper. I have an endless rollcall of such dishes up my sleeve, year upon year of building on a repertoire that began across teenage years. Tonight’s ensemble is one I nailed to my cafe menu so many years previous, a take on a Waldorf with the addition of stilton. Walnuts are toasted, mayonnaise turned through rosy-cheeked apple and celery, leaves removed from a head of purple tipped baby gem and flashed beneath the cold tap. If salads could win awards this one would be a contender.

The dogs are consoled by a leg stretch in the parkland, not straying too far from the path for once and sniffing like bloodhounds. Just as I count my blessings as to an easy walk for once, the wayward pooch jumps in the pond near the old hall, where lily pads dot its surface and you can imagine ladies with parasols stepping out on the adjacent lawns in the previous century. I fish her out, soaked to the bone and stinky. The usually sensible one finds a scent of fox poo and rolls with glee, enough to feed her fetish with its unmistakable scent; it’s showers all round when we get home.

Friday 18th April

A much needed lie-in, extra hours after initially waking to return to the land of nod across. A trade off to missing out on the magic of those first hours of light is the luxury of stolen hours of sleep, reminding me of a time before children, and dogs, and responsibilities.

I perch at the kitchen bench slurping tea from a pot, this pour and repeat exercise a daily habit. I shopped with consideration yesterday, buying only what I needed rather than capitulating to a rumbly tummy and wanton greed as I wandered the aisles. Scribbling notes of the meals in mind will steer dishes served across the coming days. A wedge of stilton for salads & soup. Mushrooms for fricassee and on toast. Buffalo mozzarella to poke into olive bread with a myriad of antipasti, and a lump of French butter to make everything taste better.

Spare a thought for the seedlings bragged about last week, for it really is a survival of the fittest in their tiny pots above the Aga. I peer at the vegetable beds, confident the line of tiny green leaves are white tipped radishes, less sure as to the irregular tufts of young shoots being the rocket sown, or just weeds pushing through. Time will tell.

There was a commotion on the parkland, predictably busy with those making the most of this first bank holiday since new year. A heated exchange between dog walkers, back and forth shouting that got diluted by a brisk breeze, though the gist of their annoyance was clear. Fresh fox poo was seized upon and gleefully rolled in by the fluffy one, caked like tar and smelly as hell.

Lunch made use of the last stretch of olive ciabatta from days previous, a repeat of the same ingredients and where the bread was warmed first in the Aga to breathe life into stale bones. Supper is a more thrilling affair, one of mushrooms and tarragon turned through wine and cream. Onion, a necessity for so many dishes was softened first, its base layer of sweet caramel a reliable note so many times over when cooking. Rice, milk white and simply braised in kettle hot water is, by my way of thinking the perfect accompaniment here, a perfect foil for the creamy mushrooms fragrant with aniseed. A fricassee if you will, absent of its traditional rabbit or chicken but with all the expected flavour.

Saturday 19th April

One of rising with the larks and putting pen to paper before day gets underway. English breakfast tea gently helps the words to flow, loosening my mind from its overnight slumber. A gentle drizzle discourages all but the seasoned from stepping out across the early hours into the damp park, where birds chirruped and shouted their encouragement from the ancient trees and the skies dried up soon into our amble, enough to drop my hood and send up silent gratitude.

I turn my attention to a batch of shortbread, flecked with lemon zest and dusted with gritty sugar. The gift of food is my most overused language of love and today’s offering is intended as a reminder of my affection. Time has taught me the gentle act of lining a tin is as much a part of baking as the recipe itself and I no longer rush this. Parchment is snipped and pressed against a tin out of shape from years of use. Butter, flour sugar; the persistent paddle blade of the stand mixer creating a soft rubble to press into the baking tray, the aroma of sugary butter heavy with heat permeating the air as it gently bakes.

In a rare burst of forethought I head to the plant centre, for tomorrows hope is to swap out the early season muscari and hyacinths and daffodils now passed with the next leg of blooms to crowd my vintage pots and galvanised jam pans, now redundant from kitchen duties. My head is turned by geom’s, dirty orange and a complementary shade to the deep honey stripe of the lounger cushions they will share the lower courtyard with. Delicate heads of Armeria in a shade of grubby white and the last of the tête a tête. A healthy looking oregano plant stands a chance in the tiny glasshouse, a miniature of its once vast self used to house French grape vines across the 1930’s and a place able to nurture my tarragon through the harsh winters without intervention.

I bundle the shortbread into paper bags, tie with string and tug stems of lavender to adorn each parcel. Lunch stretches across an afternoon of comfortable chatter, the wonderfully easy company of my siblings and mum tethering us to each other in the best of ways. I eat my body weight in gammon and chips and an orange yolked hens egg, pineapple compote bringing an update to the 1980’s charm of this dish and the chips triple cooked and drenched with flavoursome fat.

My intended forty winks by way of resetting a tired mind becomes three long hours between the sheets; subsequently any loose plans for the evening are shelved in favour of tucking up with a book and french press of coffee. Hunger is still mostly absent after my greed at lunch; instead I smear toast with stilton and nibble, interspersing pages of gardening notes with my own scribbles, jotting thoughts that germinate in the hope these can become my own garden projects at a future date.

Thank you as always for supporting me with my writing here, it really does mean the world to me.

Millsie :) x

📷 all images are my own