In lieu of poetry - a blueberry bundt cake

I am remembering who I was. I lie awake and am awash with impressions of the past. Ten years ago feels so unbearably different to now. To who I am, to what I encounter, to how I live. Mostly I am so grateful for the stability and love that I have no complaints about the present. Being older grants the serenity to just do the work that needs doing, to chop wood, carry water, so to speak, without needing the blazing epiphanies that marked my youthful quests for enlightenment.

Once he was better

Once Gareth was feeling better and I was liberated from my soup kitchen rota, I served-up this highly textured and densely flavoured couscous, inspired by Yotam Ottolenghi (again).

Sicily and soup in bed

Last week Gareth was sick and off from work and I didn't have much on apart from a few nights at the restaurant. We spent the entire below-freezing week in bed, propped up on three pillows each, drinking coffee then chai, Google street-viewing our way around Sicily.

At my table

I love having plenty of food in the house. I love the happy sunshine of fruit in bowls on the table, the serene rows of dried herbs and spices on my kitchen shelf, coloured like the beautiful textiles of arid lands. I can not rest unless my fridge is full of curry pastes, tapenades, olives, cheeses and the freezer has a stock of good bread ready for toasting. My little dry store cupboard needs aborio, brown and basmati rice, red and green lentils, two tins of Italian tuna, tinned tomatoes and at least 3 shapes of pasta for me to feel comfortable and if a cake is on a plate somewhere, well, I feel almost holy with contentment.