I will take a different tangent.

My skin is pinked and as sticky as honeyed water as I wipe my brow, though certainly not as sweet. The breezeless air, gently suffocating in its thickness, could almost be cut with my hand, the temptation to try is there, such is the enveloping humidity. High above, ominous granite clouds collect around the mountain tops, preparing to clash. The storm is nearing. And while a hare’s innocent dance between the vines of a neighbour’s field catches my eye, the dogs are suddenly distracted by a strong scent that pulls us droplet by droplet to a large pool of blood. Red.

A fresh kill. Feral. Savage. And threatening in its recentness. I start pulling on the leads, a contrast to the usual way of walking, heading homewards. Away from what may be hidden. Away from any danger. Away from the storm.

Safely returned, the kitchen is a monochrome hue, darkened by the sombre cloud cover outside. At the touch of my fingers, a subconscious nod to The Wizard of Oz perhaps, the room is returned to a dazzling technicolour. An unnaturally early electric brilliance. Light shines onto my work surface. And I prepare to make savoury trouble.

As I lay down boards, unsheathe knives, choose pans, and shake out my rolled up apron, I find I have company. The dogs, no longer idling on soft surfaces, come to comfort me through rumbling thunder, or so they would have me believe. I see them.

While I set out my stall. Arrange my place at the island, I remember a question that has needled me since Bologna. Before the Spanish, what? Curiosity is a sensation, like an itch that must be constantly scratched. Before Cortez, how? Today I intend to resolve this problem. I will gamble. I will experiment. And it will be very beige.

And so, I feel a tension in preparing something new, untried. Or perhaps it is the atmospherics, as I wrap the apron half folded around my waist, the bib tucked behind the skirt. An extra layer against my tee shirted chest seems uncomfortable in this heat. I smooth down the wrinkles with the flat of my hands, a nervous reflex, then check the equipment on the work surface and hob. And, taking a deep breath, I begin.

It takes four steps, two of them over the dogs, to the fridge. I open the door and stoop down to pick up a small tray of vegetables: carrots, onion and celery sticks. The ingredients for a soffritto, wrapped in clear plastic. Piercing the film with my forefinger, I place them on the granite work surface, behind the chopping board, side-by-side like a row of trophies, ready to cut, slice and chop. What is left, a small bundle of wilted parsley, I set aside. I return to collect the various meats and liquids that will be needed, and lay them along the counter’s edge. I twist. Behind me, on another counter, the kettle is turned on with a flick. And I step into my zone.

Celery. A safe start. My knife still has my initials painted on the handle in faded blue nail varnish from catering days, as I grip it, ready. The grooves of the sticks are a natural guide for cutting, and in barely a minute a bundle of pale green rods are turned, finely cubed and moved to the edge of the chopping board.

Picking up my vintage peeler, if it could be called vintage, coffee brown and plastic, something my Grandmother bought in the eighties, I choose two medium carrots and quickly lift off the earthy rough skins. The peelings fall like the sharpenings of a pencil onto the board. Topping and tailing the ends with the knife, I scrape up and discard the unwanted curls and ends, tossing them into the food waste. Halving their length, I start to slice, to chop.

There is a meditative comfort in that slicing, that chopping, of the gliding rhythm of knife work. A calm repetitivity. A soothing beat that eases the worries away. Big band jazz, swing, rhythm and blues, are my usual background noises. But tonight, I listen out for the storm.

I pull away the root hair from the onion and trim the top to peel away the tan parchment. Tearing away and discarding the brown, crisp skin, I cut the onion tip to root, laying each half flat, close to the edge of the board, I cut sideways, chop downwards, and finally, finely slice the flesh, watching the pearlescent dice fall away.

The kettle clicks loudly to a boiled stop in my quiet kitchen, enough that, in my revery, I jump. Taking a pause in my chopping, I reach underneath the counter. A white, crumpled paper bag is filled with a rich, meaty, sweet aroma. Dried porcini. I take a moment to inhale the luxurious perfume, then up-end the bag, rattling the contents into a clear plastic jug. Scalding water covers the fungal chips, and I leave them to macerate for as long as I can. I return to my knife. To the board. To my project.

Sweet perfume is supressed by purple flecked parchment jackets. An arm’s length from my knife. An arm’s span from where I stand. I stretch over to the small wicker basket where the garlic sits, to break off two plump cloves from the grooved bulb. Two is enough. Mine is a dish of subtle flavours. And of slow cooking. Although in my mind it is also an acknowledged gamble having merely guessed at what needs to be done. I lay them down on the board and using the flat of the blade, smash downwards with enough force to split the papery skin, to shatter the ivory flesh. As I wipe the casing aside with my hand, and begin the fine chopping, I revel in the scented oils that cover my fingertips.

The soffritto, the edible mosaic, is done.

I lift up a bottle of olive oil from the counter’s end, its glass sides slightly slick, slightly slippery, from careless pouring and forgetful wiping. The precious liquid pours into a pan. Butter on a blue and white China saucer, it has softened to a room temperature that is beyond what recipe books would demand. Those authors worked in cooler climes, and probably with air conditioning. That too is thrown in.

The hob work begins.

A pan is manoeuvred into place. I move to turn on one ring, the sensory area of the black glass surface, closest to my waist, not accepting my finger’s command at first. Then the tart sound hits my ears, a shrill pipe, it is on. I do not move my hand as I count the changing numbers up. Hot. Hotter. And wait for the oil to thin out, to ripple, the butter to spread, to foam and fizzle. The room fills with the sounds of a hiss as I tumble the soffritto into the pan. Colours kaleidoscope with every stir.

My fingers flicker over a sea salt pot. The pinch is greedy and I scatter the flakes with saline abandon over the vegetables. For a moment, the lights dim making me wonder if I should have invested in a gas hob. The noise from the pan increases. But, is it the frying, or has the rain started? I give the mixture a quick swirl with a spatula then step towards the glass door that leads to the garden, the kitchen garden to be. Rain bounces like balls on the concrete steps in front of me, but the glass has almost silenced what is outside and the pan’s noise, my noise, is the greater sound, here, inside.

Glossy brown chicken liver, placed on a small plate earlier, thawed quickly thanks to the close weather. Two “wings”, flaps, and an adjoining sinew, that fail to appeal to the eye. And yet the earthy flavour is a welcome addition to this meal. Adjusting my glasses, I bring them close to me and start to ease out and cut away all things not liverish. The meat, I lift up with the side of a knife and drop into a small pan.

The richness of full fat milk scattered over a cereal, or stirred into an oaty breakfast, is an occasional joy. I twist the cap off a plastic bottle and pour just enough to poach the liver. Then, with a sprinkling of gallic salty crystals, I start the simmer with a dry fingered touch of the hob, wiping my hand first to ensure contact. A few minutes, no more will be enough.

My patience is not for testing, I half-sing under my breath, as I raise my knife to the plastic container. My fingernails are too short for the flap. That triangular flap, part of the packaging’s design for easy opening. It. Is. Not. Easy. I cannot lift, grasp, or pull away the film lid and release the essence of wood smoke that will add a mellow otherness to the meal. I score the plastic along the ridge of the container with the blade’s tip, ripping apart the film from the cup, shaking and spilling the contents over soffritto. The pale pink cubes of pancetta, their woody aroma rising soft and subtly sweet from the pan, merge and meld with the vegetables as I stir out the rawness. Scraping the contents into a large Dutch oven, I drizzle in some more olive oil and prepare myself for the next stage of frying.

Two bowls. Two meats. My butcher, ten kilometres and twenty-five minutes away, grabbed a fistful of meat chunks and asked how I want it minced. Once, maybe? Twice, through the machine? A more personal way of doing things to the everydayness of plastic wrapped goods I have been used to up to now.

There is a flash outside as the storm peaks. While the dogs scatter to their safe spots, I focus on getting the ingredients together in case the power goes. I pick up my knife as the thunder claps.

Barely raising the top of the plastic bag, I saw just under the knot with my blade. A pair of scissors would be just as effective and not blunt the edge. I shrug. I lift up a bag and a bloody ball falls into the pan.

Beef. Steely flesh from random off-cuts that lack the richer, herbaceous flavour a steak provides. With a fury that comes from a desire to cook quickly, evenly, I separate the strands of meat with a spatula, following the lines created by the mincing machine. As the colour changes, I roll in the next bloody ball.

Pork. Lighter, sweeter, more delicate. It has a translucent quality, a pinkiness, in comparison to the ruddy bluntness of the beef. Sprinkling in some sea salt to draw out the liquids, to concentrate the flavours within, I stab and stir some more with the silicone utensil, until the rawness fades and hints of caramelisation appear. I lift the pan and tilt it all into the casserole and return it to the heat.

I turn to the bottle. Cooking wine. A local Trebbiano. By way of an apology for all things inauthentic, I raise the bottle in salute to whatever gods I should, though this meal lacks any authenticity I know of. The rumble of thunder gives me little confidence of forgiveness. I pour.

Drama and timpani are not confined to the skies outside. As a generous glass of wine hits the bottom of the pan, it is not the refined sospiro of risotto preparation, but the sound of a hissing cat, the steam of a witch’s potion, spitting, bubbling, fills the kitchen. Stirring and deglazing, I pour the reduction into the Dutch oven. My forearm acts as a barrier to my brow. Sweat or steam, it does not matter. I am hot.

I reach over to turn off the hob where the liver softly bubbles and remove the pan. I will wait a couple of minutes before handling it. The milk has taken an unappetising yellow and grey hue in its curdle. The liver pieces, are shrunken and solid, and appear unappealing. It is as I want it. I smile.

Twisting around to pick up the jug of mushrooms, my hand delves into the porcini jug and, like trying to catch goldfish in a bowl, it circles this way and that to get the best handful. Lifting my hand just above the stock I give the tightest squeeze I can to the rubbery slices before placing them on the chopping board. What remains in the jug are too small to consider cutting. I pour them and the liquid left in the jug into the cast iron pot containing the ragù. A few at a time, the slippery slices slide as I try to shred them into fine pieces, a sign that my knife is in need of a good sharpening. It does not take long before I have a small heap to join the soffritto and the meat.

The side of the blade acts as a barrier as I pour the milk into the casserole, holding back the liver pieces that are keen to be part of the mix. I drop them on the chopping board and begin to reduce them to a fine crumble. An earthy, musty aroma in contrast to all that was cooked before, hits my nose, and, strangely, I am salivating. They too join the meats, the vegetables, the mushrooms. The ragù.

A pulsating flash of pyrotechnics outside, a cackling rumble of thunder. A fanfare finale to the finishing off of my preparations. I will go check on the dogs. But I have the seasonings and garnishes to do.

Jackson Pollock spread acrylics, drizzled oils, and splashed colours over canvases to create beautiful chaos. Art that you can lose yourself in and to. I am no Pollock and the final part of this preparation will seem equally as disorderly but hopefully the end result will lose the palate to the flavours if not the eye.

I do the four-step to the fridge, the gust of coolness taunting me as I open the door, highlighting the warm dampness of my brow. Defrosted and shelved in readiness. Gelatinous stock, rich, concentrated, chicken, and made in cooler times. I let it drop from the container onto the ragù, a stranded jelly fish on the shore line. The warmth of the ingredients slowly causing it to split, to melt. To absorb.

Back under the counter top, two small jars contain the final touches. Perfumed spices. I place them on the work surface and open the first, enjoying the creamy scent of the white pepper. Careful not to sneeze. Taking a good pinch, my fingers rub together to scatter the fine powder around the dish.

The second jar rattles, a clue to its contents. One would barely imagine the sweet, intense aroma, that grating produces just looking at them. Small. Woody. Balls. But it is enough to make the pupils of my eyes widen as I start to shave one over the food. One third, a bit more. Perhaps half. But no more.

Wrapped in paper kitchen towel is the herb. Three leaves joined at the base, taken from a large tree in the field by my house. So tall it would darken the bedroom windows were it closer. I pull them apart and crush them in my palm, leaving a perfumed imprint in my hand, before planting them around the casserole dish.

The oven is on. I say this with the awareness that oven baking is not necessarily how a ragù is cooked. I will not mention this to the neighbours, of course. However, with the storm and the possibility of a power cut, it is about control. It is being in the right place. A sealed space. I pick up the spatula and give the mixture a good stir before placing the lid on top.

Opening the oven, in contrast with the fridge, throws me a blast of uncomfortably hot air. Why I did not make this earlier in the year I cannot think. I push the blue ironware dish into the heart of the oven and quickly shut the glass door. Checking the time, I quickly wipe down the surface, turn off the lights and walk away. Up to the dogs. Up to the shower. Somewhere cooler and calmer until the storm and the rain abate.

It has been four hours, closer to five. I am late, carried away by written crime, an English detective in Bologna. I have left the dogs, exhausted by nervous energy, sleeping on the end of my bed, their legs twitching to dreamy chases and woodland runs, and taken a step into the freshness outside. Sunlight has left and the night sky sparkles as clear as if the storm had never passed. Out in the garden, a cloud of fire flies spark thoughts of bright lighted cities, though here in the dark, there is no bustle. No traffic. The only noise is the occasional flute of an owl. I feel a welcome cool breeze embrace me before I step back over the threshold, shutting the door, moving back to the granite surface, the hob, the familiar.

The ragù, lifted out of the oven, is settling on the hob’s glassy surface, no time for the flavours to marry, to meld, overnight for this meal. And while a pan of generously salted water slowly comes to the boil next to it, I tear open the packet of pasta, a locally made, yellow, egg-enriched fettucine, placing a few of the nests in a bowl in readiness of the boil.

The moment the knots of pasta are tilted into the rolling water, the moment they are guided by the tongs to release, to unravel, is the moment that the clock starts ticking and I will have to work fast.

The frying pan, long ago cleaned, takes centre stage in this last act.

Drizzling in some extra virgin olive oil, my index finger activates another hob ring. Some butter, the softer than face cream consistency earlier, is now fridge cold and resistant against the knife. I drop a hearty corner in with the oil and wait until it foams and fizzles.

With a ladle, I scoop out a generous portion of the meat sauce, and pour it out into the pan. The mixture needs to be more unctuous than wet. I will keep an eye on it as I step my steps to the fridge, for herbs, for cheese.

The parmesan is a large wedge, bigger than my hand can reasonably control, but I pick up the grater and glide the thin end against its teeth. The flurry of feather-light shavings gently falls onto one side of the board.

I toss the meat sauce, chef like, a wrist flick, up, down, once, twice, and replace the pan onto the hob before it pips in absent protest. The tongs swirl the pasta quickly in a figure of eight, before I swap them for my knife.

The steel heads the herb, parsley, without mercy. Discarding the stalks, for stock, I attack the leaves as rapidly, but efficiently as possible. I smile. I gave a class once where I told the attendees to always grin when chopping. It stops any unnecessary and distracting wobbles under the chin. It is true.

The time is almost up. I pick up the frying pan, jiggle it, riddle it, put it back, then shake it once more for good measure. Picking up the tongs, I delve into the boiling pan and attempt, more than once, to pick up a ribbon of pasta to test its doneness. I have some seconds, maybe a minute. An anticipatory wipe of the surrounding area with a damp cloth fills in the time. Then I find a deep edged plate.

I lift out the pasta clumsily, but with care, into the frying pan. It may seem contradictory, but the inelegance of my method allows some residual water to help bring the pasta and sauce together. The scalding splashes of excess salt water come from lack of practice.

The hob is turned off. Scooping out the ragù with the ladle, twisting the pasta around the tongs, I lean it over the plate, still twirling the metal arms as it slowly releases itself onto the China surface. A quick sprinkle of the Parmesan and a garnish of the parsley. I let out a deep breath. One that I did not realise I was holding.

It. Is. Done.

I stare beyond the last drops of Sangiovese in my glass. Beyond the flickering candlelight. Into the beyond. Confidence can be as brittle as the sugar crust of a Crème Brulé. While my confidence remains intact. Mostly. My curiosity is sated, as am I. The plate is empty, and I feel full.

I have taken an idea and made it whole, interpreting history to suit my palate. This ragù, as off-the-cuff as it is, offers a satisfying difference to the traditional, a contrast in flavours, of the meaty, of the earthy, ethereally lifted by sweet nutmeg, pepper and bay. And, it is a true homage to beige food.

Ragù in bianco. My way.

Brutto ma buono, as they say.

I head homeward, pulled by the dogs at a pace that exceeds my fitness, leaning against a tree, allowing my breath to return. My eyes rise upwards, again, to the snow capped ridges. And I use the pause to take in the changes.

Spring barely had time to season this year before the full humidity of the summer months made movement slow, rendered small steps dependent on cool breezes, and the brow perpetually damp. Just as suddenly, trees, with their deep blue-green leaves of earlier months, changed to a lichen hue with a speed so incomprehensibly quick. Then, peeks of yellow, gold, oranges and reds emerge, bright threads in a sylvian tapestry, hinting kaleidoscopic colours to come.

Now, Christmas is upon us, and what sits on the trees, what is left, is lifeless crisp, dun. Done.

The cosmic clock has played tricks before. And, perhaps moving house again, simply stole time away. But the dogs have settled, and corners of the new house are theirs. I have yet to establish my corners. My settled spaces. Except for this place where I write and the space where I cook.

Ox blood coloured stairs, an oxidised red that will hopefully be changed, have, for the first time in the history of the house, united the kitchen to the upper floors. As steep an incline as a companionway on a boat, their chiming metal steps announce every ascendency, every downward path. Under which lie bags and boxes. Amongst which I find what I am looking for.

Russet skinned and soil dusted, I choose three palm sized potatoes, and rinse them at the kitchen sink under the lukewarm trickle of the tap. Then, scuffing them rigorously with a brush, put them down on a cloth and turn to see if the oven has come up to heat.

The small red light at the top right corner, remains determinedly alight, signifying that I should have more patience than I can muster as I wait for the temperature to rise. A roast hot, red hot, heat. The oven is new. New to the kitchen. New to me. More than mere usage, the relationship with my former oven of so many years, the idiosyncrasies, the coexistence, has left me suspicious of any other cooker. I will have to learn. To adapt. To accept.

At the back of the room, a Victorian pine table, sits regnant amongst another pile of clutter. Before the island was built, before the oven had emitted any heat, it was laid out, with cutlery, with glasses, napkins and rings, as soon as it was unwrapped from bubble coated plastic. I would suggest that I was reenforcing civilisation amidst a cluttered, barbaric, room, but practicality holds more truth; a space to use. I remove a fork from a place setting, and holding one potato at a time, begin to stab. Gothick reflections of red in the silver prongs as I pierce the skin. By the third potato, my enthusiasm is getting the better of me and I place the fork gently on the work surface.

The red light is muted, and, as I open the door, a furnace like blast steams my glasses giving me satisfying proof of the oven’s heat. I quickly place the potatoes on the chrome shelf, and shut the door. Leaving them to bake. Leaving me pause. Preparation is for later. I make time to delve into the disorder that surrounds me.

As a child, I remember a supermarket where boxes, all similar, all on shelves, were ripped open on the outward facing side so the customer could take whatever it contained. Sugar comes to mind, though there was plenty of other produce, and I was an infant holding hands with my Grandmother. The kitchen view is similar, though the boxes are as intact as they could be. The contents remain inside. Waiting for the light. I take time to search.

Daylight fades quickly in the final months of the year. The lower seasonal sun has bowed behind the mountains it barely had the energy to rise above. The woodfired oven, the stufa, glows warm, flickering light across the whitewashed walls. And although there is a raw bulb hanging from coloured wires, brightening the darkest of kitchen corners, I will turn it off when it is time to eat, preferring the subtle glow of candlelight. Muted light enhances the tastebuds, or so I have been told.

Some things are easier to find. More distinct. More obvious. The stock pot, for example, large, chrome, I spy in the gap under the oven. Filling a third of it with cold water from the faucet, salting it well, and carrying it to the hob, I place my finger pad on a spot at the edge of the hob’s surface, and it comes to life. The muted noises of gas, the steam powered harmonics of an enamelled kettle, no more. Gone. All replaced by penetrating pings, jarring alarms and ear piercing beeps of the new age. And while my environmental conscience is clear, is clean, the future is loud and not so easy to absorb, nor to accept.

The refrigerator, tall, white and slightly battered, has survived the moves, one thousand miles at a time, and two years absence in storage. The accumulation of dust, the removal of wrapping and the wrong type of wiring have not prevented the light from glowing yellow the moment the door is opened. Yoghurts, cheeses, meats, greens, wine; a cornucopia in a metal box, in contrast to the random clutter outside. I refuse a Spartan life. I stoop down to the plastic drawer at the bottom and pick out a head of broccoli, or should it be a posy the way in which I hold it? An eager bride I am not. It will turn the way of Autumnal leaves if I do not use it soon. An already opened jar of anchovies is stored in the door. The anticipation of a lick of sea salt in my meal makes my mouth water. I pick it out with the free hand and close the door with a gentle tap of my foot.

A hooked handle, faded blue numbers, multiple measurements; the clear plastic jug will work for the what I have in mind. It sits on a pile, in a box, filled with more jugs, atop other boxes, filled with storage containers, filled with bowls. All clear plastic. I have a quiet loathing for plastic cartons, but with a brief pause, I see I have been more organised than I thought, and a lopsided smile begins to bloom.

Stacked crates, found discarded at the back of a supermarket and taken home, more plastic, to be obscured behind the island’s walls and surfaces, one upon the other, side by side, black on black, by black. Spices, rices and beans that previously rattled loudly in their jars and boxes, sit neatly in this temporary configuration. The kitchen has yet to have shelves.

In one crate, amongst the spices, I find chilli flakes in a glass jar. The fire from their flesh will lend some heat to the dish. Some. I will only need a pinch. Some more, perhaps. I unscrew the top and reach in with my fingers, catching a few dried crumbs. Then, realising that I want more warmth, tilt the jar over the plastic jug and watch as the orange-red flecks fall to the bottom.

My little finger, cocked in the manner of a zealous tea drinker, delves into the now opened jar of anchovies, and picks out a couple of curled fillets.

Collioure, so many memories ago, its saline seduction drew me to her like a siren’s song, so famed were the anchovies. I may exaggerate. Even so, these, from Campania, in the south of Italy, will add a subtle depth of flavour to the meal.

I casually drop them onto the chilli flakes and drizzle in a little of the ozoned oil. Still hooked outwards, the other fingers do the tightening of the silver lid and, as I return the jar to the fridge, shamelessly licking that little finger, enjoying the tongue teasing contrast of oil, sea and salt.

Opposites attract. I find the sharpest, mustiest, vinegared roundels of flavour that aim to confuse a brine oiled mouth. Capers. A smaller jar shadowed by the chilli flakes. I drain some of the liquid into the sink then shake a few green buds into the jug.

Some things are less easy to find. Less evident. Concealed. Disguised. Garlic bulbs. Hidden in a small wicker basket on top of the fridge, at an angle and height that eludes me for a while. I stretch my arm over my head, my hand grasping blindly, grabbing the first thing I contact and then, arm lowered, watch a plump bulb roll across the counter as I relax my hand.

White parchment, streaked with a hint of purple, pulls away with my thumb nail. I might add that I keep my nails short enough for people to assume I chew them. I do not. The clove is revealed. Once. Twice. The Italians do not like a lot of garlic. I set them aside while I find my knife roll, and the collection of knives inside that always move with me.

Tailing the cloves, I use my most trusted blade to roughly chop them into small chunks. Small enough. And, sliding the metal underneath, scoop them up and drop them into the jug. The sweet aroma, alluring.

Water comes to heat at an astonishing rate with this hob, bubbling like a thermal spring, steaming the kitchen windows, the glass pane of the door.

Florets of broccoli come away as the steel works its way through the root, persuading the shoots to part. The stem is cut at the base. I square it off, trimming the sides, discarding some parts, saving some branches, leaving me with a pale jade brick. Turning the block away from me the knife slices lengthways three times. Then, rolling it, three times more. Sixteen strips become several cubes as I finish cutting, all joining the florets. All scattered across my chopping board. All to tumble into the rolling water and swirl for a little longer than I would normally allow.

I am reminded of a childhood game, as I head to the square, wicker basket on the window ledge. Take a small wire hook and remove a miniature straw coloured piece from a pile, keeping the heap whole and unmoved. Here, I keep gadgets that were too important to put into storage: whisks, zesters, spatulas, spider, stick blender. A veritable treasure trove of items that, in truth, were never as vital as I thought.

I reach in and remove the spider, zester and blender, carefully trying not to dislodge the other utensils. As with the game, there is always a chance of failure. The long, electric wire attached to the blender is knotted around an antique serving spoon, its silver plate glistens, winking at me mockingly, as once lifted, it loosens, and drops onto the terracotta floor. The sudden, loud chime rings shrill in the kitchen, attracting rude stares from the dozing dogs. I lose.

The array of utensils I need, are lined up on the work surface, and, moving sideways to the hob, I ready myself with the spider to scoop out the broccoli, florets and cubes, from the rolling water and into the jug. The smaller pieces are more difficult as they whirlpool around the pot. But, after several this ways and thats, I make my final swoop, catching the most enigmatic particles in a sea of, what has become, green tinted water. I lower the heat.

The potatoes, crumpled skins, have baked to a snowball softness, sit cool on the counter. Waiting to be pulped. Waiting to be mashed. To be riced. I do not have any idea where the ricer, bought at great expense, is. I will use a fork and pray for fewer lumps. I am very religious.

Pounds, ounces, grams, kilos. Weight has no meaning. Not tonight. The boxed scales are boxed elsewhere and I am forced into a guessing game until I find them. My knife cuts through the leathered skin, halving each one lengthways. Six ovals of potato pulp. The fallen spoon, since wiped clean, slowly scoops out the flesh and drops it into a large glass bowl. I repeat the motions five more times, ensuring that at least one shell of skin remains intact.

The pricking fork held firmly in my hand, I start my work. Slowly, carefully pressing down on each potato piece with the back of the prongs. Fluffing with an upward motion. Turning clumps into tuberous clouds. Brightly hoping for a smooth consistency, while fighting any darkly pessimistic Celtic urge that is there.

I turn to the fridge, opening the door and picking out from the top, from the clear plastic shelf, from a clear plastic tray, a solitary egg. Brown and generously sized, the chiming, the cracking sound, clashing as the shell, broken on the edge of the glass bowl, drops its contents over the mashed, for that is what I have, potato. The fork swirls the egg, breaking the yolk, fusing it with the white, and whisking it into the potato. The mixture is wet. Hinting yellow.

Flour, Double “O”, milled to a finer consistency than ordinary flour. The pack, opened at an earlier time, in another kitchen, is on top of the crate that carries the herbs, the spices. I pick up one of the potato shells. It will become my measuring cup, replacing any scales. I fill it level with the farinous powder, sprinkling it into the bowl. My right hand delves in and merges, mixes. I repeat, filling the skin half again. Shaking most of it over the potato, scattering the rest of it onto the work surface. Kneading. The word is too strong, the action too rough. But a gentle melding action until it balls. The texture losing wetness. Turning tacky. Dry enough, not too dry. I lift it out of the bowl and lower it onto the work surface.

The work top comes from the discarded counters of an old pasticceria, a bakery, turned into a holiday home. Those granite slabs have become the island and the draining surfaces. And here, where the stone is so cool and smooth, the dough could almost forget the need for flour. Or that is what I imagine as I scatter some more, just in case.

Tearing a ball of the mixture, I start to roll it out on the powdered work top. Watching it snake out beneath my hands as I spread my fingers wider. My arms moving outwards, further. Further.

A side knife, flat steel blade, yellowing bone handle the colour of aged teeth, acts as my cutter. Lightly pinching the worm with my thumb and forefinger I lop off the roughened end. The knife cuts the flesh an inch, perhaps, a couple of centimetres, at a time, the flat side flicking each nugget towards the back of the counter. Another ball, another roll. More flour. More length. More cutting. More flicking. More. I look into the empty bowl and then to what is scattered across the island top. I have more than I need. A lot more. I will not go hungry.

Emerald tinted with hints of bronze, the broccoli infused water, heated earlier, starts its rippling motion a second time as I touch the surface to initiate power. Touch sensitive, I still push downwards. The magnetic force driving the water into a more and more frenzied roll. Perhaps too frenzied. I reduce the heat slightly.

Click. I attach and twist the two parts together. Click. Locking the stick blender halves. The motor and the blade. A light glows blue when I connect it to the socket under the stone surface of the island.

My thumb searches for the starter button, where the rubber is soft, and with a slight squeeze, I test to see if it works. The propeller blade gives a satisfying whirr just beneath my eyeline. Turning it downwards with purpose, and placing the cupped end into the jug of broccoli, I begin to pulse. The garlic perfume and tangy scent of fish muted by an earthier brassic aroma. Reaching over to the boiling water with the silver serving spoon in hand, I take a measure. Splashing some of the salty liquid into the jug, I start to render down the chunks, lumps and fronds, the broccoli, garlic, saline and spice. Another spoonful. It starts to become the looser vibrant green sauce that I have in mind. One more time.

The sauce pours from the jug spreading out onto the wide base of the sauté pan. Its colour in sharp contrast to the yellowness of the silicone spatula. I scrape as much as I can, before perching the pan on the farthest end, the cooler part, of the stufa’s hot plate. It is temporary. Too much heat now, and the colour will turn an unappetising grey-green.

There is a lemon ageing on my granite pestle. Tired and beginning to harden. I introduce its skin to the fine blades of the zester and, holding it over the sauce, start to shave away the zingy outer layer. It is a last minute addition that will give the sauce a fresher element, where cooking might mute any citric kiss. Stirring it into the broccoli.

I had selected the spider for removing the gnocchi once cooked, I now realise I have nothing for putting them into the stock pot. Wedged against the wall of the wicker basket, hidden from initial sight, a cream coloured dough scraper peeps into sight. I am ready to finish what I began.

While water swirls and rolls more gently than before, I scoop the gnocchi onto the wide flat surface, lunging my hand forward and capturing the nuggets with the other to stop them falling. A dozen or so at a time drop into the steaming liquid at a time. Trying hard not to splash and scald myself. I fail. I repeat the process another time. And again. My pain is lessened by a cool trickle of water at the kitchen sink. A rapid motion before turning to the sauce.

I remove the sauté pan from the stufa and bring it alongside the stock pot. And wait. I realise I am holding my breath, but each time I make gnocchi, it produces the same reaction. The pause is too suspenseful. Slowly, ever so slowly, they begin to release themselves from the bottom of the pan and rise gracefully to the surface. Individually. In pairs. In clusters. They rise. And respiration resumes.

I reach for a pasta dish that has warmed in the oven and prepare to serve. With the spider I start to lift the dumplings out of the water and drop them gracelessly into the green sauce, no shaking of drops, but allowing the extra liquid to keep the sauce thin. I swirl the spider around, again, and again, capturing as many as possible at each turn. Watching them polka dot the sauce as they fall into the sauté pan.

The spider is replaced by the silver spoon, generous enough for precision serving. I tilt the pan and its contents towards me and use the spoon to coat and gently toss. Then, one small serving at a time, lay the meal into the well of the plate.

A grind of pepper and a drizzle of olive oil, extra virgin, local. Grassy and spicy. I take my dish to the table. The music is jazz, the wine regional, and the candles lit. An affectation? Perhaps. A classic dish this is not. A hint of rebellion? Maybe. I will never be Italian so why pretend? Why worry? I shrug, and lean into the large bowl of warm food. Hearty food. Comfort food. Thoughts, like the snow outside, melting away with each mouthful.

“While ingredients are measured, food is love, sustaining everyone and everything. But love cannot be measured, so food, as with love, cannot be quantified.”

Anonymous

The season is changing. Gone, the perpetual penetrating winter dampness. But that slow drying dewy mist, the clear skied morning heat brings in the early part of summer, is yet to arrive. Instead, warm pollened days are mixed with spring rains, and harsh, chilled gusts that skirt from under the cloudline, outward and beyond, their rage gnawing at the complacent flesh; dressing for the season is sacred. Red-raw allergic eyes, or cold wind blown tears, might suggest I am perpetually sad, when, in reality, nature is just amusing itself at my expense until the hot weather truly arrives.

Here, a satisfying solitude exists, a meditative comfort in which to absorb this panorama. I am alone. Without company. And time would stand still if it were not for the dogs, oblivious of the beauty surrounding them, merrily meandering beside me, sniffing out new scents, old smells, on shrubs, on trees, the traces of woodland animals.

Apian murmurings bring the blossomed trees to life, while down below, newly awakened lizards skedaddle slow fast, slow fast across the track, and newborn chicks trill toneless. A white aura of dandelion breezes gently away as a rabbit emerges from the shrub, crossing my path, and, at that moment, all solemnity is shattered by frantic barks. The rabbit races fearfully in any direction far from me, far from the dogs. The tufted cottontail bouncing white, becomes all that is visible as it scampers away. The spell broken, it takes all the strength and power that I can muster against two animated animals to retreat. Back to the car. Back home.

As I strap myself in, my chest black sashed, my heart still racing from the leporine surprise, an idea comes to mind. With a certainty I did not have a mere hour before, I start the engine, shift the gear stick and drive, not homeward. Elsewhere. Towards town.

I find a contented calm in the cool marbled macelleria, where, still flushed from my walk, I observe the butcher quietly offers a bespoke attention to each of his regular customers. On the counter beside the till, sits a solitary pastel coloured egg. The only item of colour apart from the framed Madonna icon on the rear wall. A contrast to the rest of the town, where the build up to an imminent Easter, is, as with other festivals, a celebration of the garish. Bright foils and plastics, large eggs, small chicks and wild eyed rabbits fill the voids. Here, subtlety was never going to be the victor. And space, like parking bays, impossible to find.

Charmed into buying more than I needed, my wallet emptied, I carry a large bag, the plastic stretching, with focus and determination, to the car, to the dogs. Home.

Spring days stretch longer, but the light in the kitchen is still muted. I unwrap the small, pale carcass, spreading its waxed paper shroud wide. The light above radiates a warm yellow, giving the milky flesh an almost religious glow. It is headless. I have no desire to see my food stare back at me in reproval, not while cooking, nor while eating. The offal sits in the sliced open belly, and I reach in with two fingers, hooked, to pull it all away. I will use the liver for another meal I have in mind. Stretching over the counter, I lift up a bottle of oil and drizzle some of the liquid over the meat, ready to place in a pan in the oven.

From the fridge, I retrieve a clear plastic tray. Soffritto comes in kit form, ready for a broth, a stock or a stew. I pick out the onion, some celery and two small carrots and find a chopping board on which to begin.

I grip a brown plastic peeler, bought by my grandmother at a discount store many years ago, it still has the ability to remove the skin from potatoes, from carrots, from almost any vegetable, with a finesse that newer ones I have possessed cannot. Its value, both emotional and practical is impossible to gauge. And so, I keep it safe in a roll next to my knife.

It strips the carrots, curling the ribboned skin away, with an unnecessary speed. I reach for the knife, drawing it out from the roll, to top and tail them. Like the peeler, my knife is irreplaceable. I can hold the handle in my palm with the ease of a parent with a child’s hand. Another would take some time to adjust to. I slice one side of the carrot, using that façade as a secure base to slice it into strips securely, then batons, then small cubes.

My hands are used to the twist and turn, the slice, chop, saw of dicing the onion halves, one at a time, a familiarity coming from a practice that is older than the steel blade I am holding. I could almost do it blindfolded. Almost.

Though the toughness makes the cutting harder, there is a satisfying crunch from the celery stalk as I turn the peppery stem into spears, the ridges guiding the sharpened edge along and down. A final turn, a final chop, and they are finely diced.

Three piles, white, orange, green. Three vegetables ready for the pan. Soffritto for the sauté.

Crouching down, I look for my dented frying pan in the cupboard, dropped and damaged a day after purchase. I place it on the largest hob ring and drizzle the oil from a height, in a swirling motion, over the base, theatrical in manner. Though I am quite certain that a simply centred puddle would heat just as quickly.

I click the trigger of the lighter, a pale blue plastic device with an extended metal nozzle, designed for the cook in the kitchen not the smoker outside; I have seen the back doors of many a restaurant. It is empty, but the spark is enough, after a few clicks, and a few clicks more, to light the gas. Whoosh.

Caution and I are dance partners. When a stove or hob is unfamiliar to me, the soffritto is staggered to avoid any tinging. Any tainting. Any burning. But for the moment the kitchen is still, the only sound, the noise of burning methane emanating from the hob. The only movement, the shimmer of the oil.

Time.

Lifting the chopping board, I scrape in the celery. The sizzle is immediate. Loud. Distracting. A cacophonous contrast to the previous calm. I pause, just long enough to allow the celery to become translucent, stirring occasionally to spread them across the pan’s base, then add the carrots, shaking and mixing in the flame coloured dice. As the edges turn golden, my cue, I stir in the onions, lower the heat and, from a small cardboard tub beside the hob, sprinkle sea salt over the mixture. I step back, allowing the heat to soften the vegetables. Transform them.

A large chrome stock pot acts as my Dutch oven. Lidded and big, voluminous enough for several variants of this supper. I tilt the wide frying pan and watch as the dented part, in some ways a chute, guides the vegetables in the right direction, into the pot. I return the pan to the hob and find the wine. White. Cheap. Acidulation to counter the oils. A hiss, a sigh perhaps, as it touches the base. I swirl it around and pour it on top of the soffritto.

A metallic tube of tomato paste, already opened, nearly used up, lies wanting on a clear plastic shelf in the door of the fridge, higher than my stiffened shoulders would prefer. It waits to be finished. I remove the red cap, a coloured clue to the tube’s contents, and use the handle of a silicon spatula to force up what may be in the flattened part, squeezing it to the top, where stubborn uncrushable shoulders store what definitely is at the opening. Holding it over the pot, over the vegetables, I press hard with my fingers, forcing out the contents, and jump at the sudden explosion of red. Not the small mouse’s paw as I wanted, but not excessive. I stir.

The purple flecked skin of the garlic is prised away from the rooted end with my thumbnail, revealing a creamy clove. I repeat again. And again. My recent use of garlic has resulted in a blue-green hue in sauces and vinaigrettes, much to my horror. I like colour. Just not this way. Not in my meal. The cause, apparently to do with a reaction to some cooking methods, acidulation, storage, maybe just karma. It leaves me in a quandary, so I will brazen it out until the end, adding it at the last minute, to reduce the possibility of tincture.

From the oat coloured knife roll, in another part of the kitchen, and spread out on another surface to easily see the contents, I pick out a hand held grater. Long and narrow. As I grate, a slow stroking motion of clove against the blades, I watch what was solid slowly turn to perfumed pulp on the board.

Stock. Chicken. Commercial. Stored in a carton. It has a less pungent flavour than the solid, crumbly cubes, whose flavours catch the throat and overwhelm the dish. No amount of advertising with celebrity chefs will change my opinion, nor my tastebuds. I unscrew the white cap, the foil underneath giving a grudging resistance until the first twist is complete, and pour out a large proportion of the straw coloured liquid.

Pale pink flesh glows ethereal under the overhead light, the pearlescent carcass, like alabaster statuary on a tricolour mosaic, but this is no shrine to cooking, it is lowered carefully onto the soffritto. Any reverence, any pomp, is destroyed as, with a cacophonous crash, the aluminium lid lands firmly on top of the pot.

Opening the door of the oven, the heat blast is a warm slap to the face. I squat carefully, bending the knees, not the back, to push the pot inside, and squarely onto the shelf, then rising and shutting the door take pause.

I look around the kitchen.

I am missing the dust. The farinous cloud of double “OO”, a finger formed well, a Stromboli. The absence of eggs, one whole, one yolk, dropped inside the mound, their broken shells, cast aside. The tinny chink of an antique fork, prongs tapping on the surface, breaking any silence the kitchen might enjoy, as they bring the two ingredients together.

The gentle force of kneading, kinder than with bread dough, but firm and thorough. An energy that should warm the shoulders and arms, but, standing here, looking on, I remain cool. No setting aside and resting.

I imagine assembling the attachments, screws, bolt-ons. The grips. The familiar click, click, click of the ridged knob, the crank of the wood handled arm, and the whir of the rollers as they squeeze and force through the lumpen paste, producing, at each stage, a thinner and more desirable sheet.

It should all be so.

But the Imperia, the pasta machine, so chrome brilliant under the kitchen light, is stored darkly in a unit some distance away. And the table top is left bare. Instead I must rely on dried pasta, made in a factory some two hills beyond my view.

Water from the faucet splashes into another large pot that I have brought up from under the counter. It fills deep. Room for the pasta to swim.

As salty as the mediterranean.

Poetic words that seem to suggest instruction. Do. Not. Be. Fooled. I learned many years ago the difference between salted and salty. Between theory and practice. Between the edible and the inedible.

I flip a glass lid and ease my hand inside a container to prise out a small wooden shovel. Cooking salt stored in a Kilner jar that remains close to the hob. Always for vegetables. Always for pasta. Never for seasoning. A heaped amount is enough. The fine white crystals scatter into the pot, clouding the water, and the hob is turned up high. I leave it to boil while I return to the chopping board.

The last of the juniper is pocketed in a bag. Small and knotted. A seasonally aromatic herb that does not seem suited to climates beyond the cooler months. I tumble them out onto the board from the bag. They continue to scatter like marbles in every direction until the back of the knife presses down on the little purple balls. Stopping their progress. I quickly gather them together and start to chop, the blade’s work releasing the herbaceous scent. I scrape the pile alongside the garlic.

Rosemary. Spindly needles that offer a heady perfume the moment the knife cuts through them. Where juniper has a more subtle bouquet, the rosemary competes only with the garlic for dominance. I cut it, gathering the jumping shards every so often, and chopping them again and again with the knife until they are fine flakes. I lift them up with the blade and set them next to the juniper and garlic. All to stir in at the last minute.

Time really does fly, even when the meal in question does not require too much of its attention.

I crouch down to remove the pot from the oven’s chamber, the wave of heat making my eyes water as the door is opened. Blinded, my gloved hands, arms held out the way a child craves for love from a parent, go in and take hold of the handles. I steadily lift the pot and myself towards the work surface and remove the lid. More steam. More watery eyes. I peer inside and test the doneness with the knife’s tip. It should pull away from the bones.

The colander, green, plastic, bright, is placed over a large metal bowl, I slowly pour out the contents of the pot, separating the liquid. A dignified landing for the meat as it glides onto the soffritto, and the sauce drains through like water from a shower head. I wait until it has stopped. Tongs help me lift up the rabbit whole, and, before its fragile frame breaks into parts, lower it onto another board. Melamine and grooved around the edge to catch the extra juices. Brushing off the occasional cube of carrot, of onion, of celery with my forefinger, I pull away the legs, setting them to one side. Then, with care for any small bones, for any shot pellets, I start to ease off the loin meat, collecting it all into a cereal bowl at the side.

The action of gripping, pinching, squeezing and twisting, where the meat is already about to fall away, should be straight forward were it not for the heat. I brace myself. I pick up the first leg. Quickly, holding it in my palm, I start to pull. I drop it a couple of times, picking it up, trying again, until the meat is freed. Then, using running water to cool my hands, repeat, after a pause. It is not true that chefs, even former ones, have asbestos hands. I should have used some latex gloves.

With a slight throbbing sensation remaining in my hands, I pick up the knife again. What has not been broken, torn, pulled apart into bite sized pieces, I chop into strips, their proportions aiming to compliment

the pasta.

Water boils spring like in the pot ready for the pasta to be immersed, the spectral whisps of steam rising high. Slip knots. Knots of noodles, bundled pasta, slip from the packaging into the rolling water. I tease them with the tongs to ease them open, watching them swirl around in the salty currents.

Time is short, I only have a few minutes in which to gather everything together.

The oven, not long switched off, has enough residual heat to warm the plates through. I open its door and place some pasta bowls I have found, ridiculously large, disproportionately deep, on the shelf and, rising, concentrate on the work at the hob.

In a pan, oil ripples for a second time as I get ready to throw in the herbs, the rosemary, the juniper, letting their perfume infuse before I add the meat. A petillant sizzle as I stir them with the spatula, the fragrances intensifying as they heat through. I lean over and grab the meat, claw it, greedily with my bare hand and scatter it into the herbaceous oil. Shaking the pan with the other hand. Finally, I tilt in the garlic. It reluctantly releases itself from the board and drops in. I shake the pan vigorously, tossing the contents up, then watching it fall repeat again a couple more times until it is mixed together.

I peer into the pot of boiling pasta, it is close to being done in my mind, however, I open my box of utensils, delve in with my clean hand, and find my ladle. Old, wooden handled, burnished at the base. I use it to give the water a stir, then take some of the starchy liquid and pour a drop over the meat to prevent it from catching in the hot oil. Another shake of the skillet and I find my colander ready to test and drain the pasta.

Hot lips and a tender tongue. I pick out a strand and, lifting it high, take a nibble from the bottom. Even with a birthday-like puffed out blow from my mouth, its heat is hard to take.

A moment longer.

Enough time to find my oven gloves, to line up the heated plates, to organise the tools I need to serve: ladle, spoon, tongs. All in that moment.

The colander, relieved of its previous contents is sat in the kitchen’s sink. With oven gloves, I lift the pot and pour the pasta out to the last drop. Steam rises and turns my brow into a glistening scape. I let it drain while I move back to the sauce. I shift the skillet to the hob where the pasta was boiling. A larger hob. More heat. More intense. The sound of the frying increases. I give a stir of the sauce and, using the tongs, add the pasta. No longer knots. Ribbons. The meat and the noodles merge, starched water giving the two a chance to couple. I lift the ladle that is lying beside the hob and dip it into the leftover sauce from the braising. Just enough to coat. Heated through, it will add a richness. An element of completion.

Hot plate.

I stop the gas. Tongs pinch the meat and pasta together, forcing them into the ladle and I twist. Turning the tongs enough to bundle, lifting the ladle, raising my hands and delicately plating into one bowl. I repeat, hoping my luck will hold out to present another plate as well. Shere luck. There is some pasta left in the skillet but I am not interested. Lifting the pan and tilting it so that I can scoop the remnants with the spoon, I drizzle a little of the juice over the contents. Then, turning the plate at an angle that best presents the meal, ten past eight, should there be doubt, I lay the bowl down at the table.

A bottle, opened for me earlier, tempts me to a glass of a light local wine. Pecorino d’Abruzzo. Lemon zest tangy. I sit down and take a sip. A glug. And. Pause.

A soft voice echoes in my head. An old Flanagan and Allen song, from decades ago, something my grandmother used to sing to me:

Run rabbit, run rabbit, run, run, run,

Don’t give the farmer his fun, fun, fun,

He’ll get by without his rabbit pie,

So, run rabbit, run rabbit, run, run, run.

This certainly isn’t rabbit pie. I do wonder though, what she might have made of this.

This winter morning has greeted me with an ice chilled bite that shrinks my skin and needles into my bones. Layers of cold that I have not experienced in the many years I have been away. A pale blueness of sky accompanied by a weakly white sun, promises no warmth. No burning away the mist, lingering low over the landscape, obscuring the valley and distant hills. No softening of the frosted grass, crisp underfoot had I the courage to step outside, beyond the leaded window pane. And, amongst this dawn’s shadowy backdrop of grey trees and hedges, a springing deer catches my eye, disappearing from view, obscured by breath fogged glass. I have an idea.

I am home. But not in any home of mine. This view, a far cry from the sheer, snow capped mountainscape of my own house, has the gentle rising and falling of farmland fields, rough hewn hedgerows and high banked lanes. This fog petrified vision, is a slow meditative breath rather than the dramatic Apennine gasp more familiar to me. This monochrome stillness I stare at from a modern kitchen in an ancient building. I shudder. I need to plan. I need to bathe.

I contemplate the contents of the food stalls in the nearby market hall, a fifties cuckoo of a building nestled down amongst the town’s historic architecture, from the gallery above. On this level, I can take in the atmosphere, the vendors, the goods, without the effort of walking. Lazy, I admit. To my delight, on this level, I also spy books. Compact and cosy, more of a shop than stall, shelves of thrillers, romance, crime, more. I am instantly joyful. And, I have to admit, if there were an armchair, I could almost forget my mealtime mission and remain there, browsing, buying, reading. But, with enough fiction to fill my suitcase, I am forced to press ahead.

Lamb, beef, poultry. Shanks, steaks, drumsticks. As indifferent an array of meats as any other butcher’s counter, as I look down from my crow’s nest vantage point. Some bacon. Some packets of flavourings to help the meal along, should I ever forget my days training as a chef. Nothing, to paraphrase Lewis Carroll, that says “eat me”. Unmoved. Uninspired. I release a pent up sigh.

My eye starts to wander away, beyond the counter, musing ideas of farm shops elsewhere, but I stop. My attention caught by a small tray of richly coloured meat, high piled to overflowing. In that brief glimpse, with the memory of that leaping deer, my quest is ended.

Early evening has come. Daylight shadows have melted into the darkness, but the sky is clear, the moon bright, and the valley lit quicksilver. Windows of houses as far as the view allows, glow golden. And while days are slowly getting longer, the change in season is a pace too slow for me.

My face flushes a winter rose pink with the change from bitter breeze outside, to the warmth of the kitchen. Perhaps it is the effort of the shopping bags and stairs. Perhaps. In any case it is going to get warmer as I turn on the oven.

I drop the bags of shopping on the oak floorboards, they contain everything necessary, and some things unnecessary, and, with the rhythm of a percussionist, open and close all the drawers and cupboard doors. Bang, bang. Looking to see what crockery and utensils I can use. Bang, bang. Absolutely all of them. Bang, bang, tish!

The equipment is basic and the chef’s knife is blunt. It takes some time to find a steel at the back of the utensil drawer. The heat from the room, or maybe my expending energy, is starting to hit me. Shedding a layer or two, my coat, my jumper, I think of my whet stone and how much easier it could be, before tackling the epée like tool.

As a rule, I never hold a steel in the air to sharpen a knife. Theatrics for the diners, in my view, remembering the last time I did it that way; I slipped and cut deeply into a knuckle. I place a folded cloth on the table for grip and point the steel tip downwards on it, angling the knife and drawing it carefully on each side. Testing the edge with the pad of my thumb. Continuing again, testing again, and continuing once more, firmly but without sparks I might add, until I have a keen edge.

I lift the shopping bag with the base vegetables, the soffritto, the mirepoix, and remove them ready for the knife, for the peeler. For the pan.

Crisp and tan parchment flutters away as I strip down the onion, pulling away the root hairs, discarding them on the table’s surface. The knife, now sharper than a barber’s blade, glides through the pale fleshy tip. A skater through ice, it slices the onion in half. I pull away the first petal layer, a slightly tougher part, then cut horizontally. A turn, then slice downward, the knife tip towards the root, before turning again and chopping. The fine dice falling onto the chopping board.

A thick handled, large bladed sturdy peeler, with an air of impracticality, skins the carrot quickly, ribbons of orange tumbling away. Its effectiveness surprises me. The knife tops and trims the ends, and the discarded parts join the slowly growing pile on the table’s end. Cutting each one in half, I take a strip off one side, rolling it over to create a flat base that I can work with. I do not want to slip. Slicing downward, forming strips, piling each one on top of the other, they quickly become batons, then the baton bundle is turned and chopped into small cubes.

With a tidiness, wholly in contrast to my nature, being messy, and wholly in contrast to the pile of trimmings and discarded peelings, tips and roots, I carefully create a mound next to the onion dice.

The celery stick is large, wide and white at the base, turning a fresh green as it tapers upwards. One is enough, another stick would overwhelm the mix. Like the carrot, I trim it on each end and cut it in half. Using the outer grooves as my guide, I cut through the tough, peppery stem. More batons become more dice. And they too are piled beside the carrot and the onion with my newly unnatural neatness. It may be that I am showing off. Maybe.

I ignore with some disdain the garlic press, with its chrome cheeriness and black rubber handled trendiness. I leave it in the drawer. Like the steel, it is something that I will tolerate elsewhere, but never in my own kitchen. With the side of the knife I smash down on each of the plump cloves I have selected. Pulling away the skins and using the tip of the knife to trim off the root. I begin with some rough chopping, breaking the flattened whole into smaller, rougher pieces. A bit more chopping and then I sprinkle some sea salt over them. With the blade turned away from me, I make paddle movements, holding the end, crushing the perfumed flesh with the sharp edge, the coarse salt crystals an aid to the pasting, until they disappear, until they meld with the oils. Slowly the cloves become a fragrant pulp.

I pour out some oil, watching it shimmer in a sauté pan. I have not used a halogen hob for ages, so frying my vegetable base is done carefully. One vegetable at a time, not wanting the onion to catch and taint the flavour of the meal. I tilt the chopping board and, with the back of the knife, slide in the celery. I start with that in the naïve belief that celery is hardier so less likely to singe in the pan. When it starts to become more translucent, I scrape in the carrots, watching them become slightly golden on the ridges before I add the onion. Lowering the heat and dropping in the onion dice, I sprinkle some salt, stir, and let the heat slowly relax the vegetables for a minute or two.

In the cupboard, I have found a large casserole dish. Glass. Oval. Lidded. I presume it was designed to cook a chicken whole, like the terracotta ‘bricks’ that became the fashion some decades ago. I remove the clear lid and pour out the contents of the frying pan. With a few scrunched sheets of kitchen paper, I wipe the pan clean and place it back on the heat.

Wrapped in waxed paper and tied with string as if it was a gift from the butcher himself, the package has been opened up, so the meat, the cubes and cubes of it, can reach room temperature. I examine the contents to see if all the pieces are similar in size, and cut down the few that are overly large, or have a streak of sinew. I have only extra virgin olive oil, green gold and rich, rather than a lighter, less pungent oil, but this is not my home, and I am here for only a few days. I pour a measure into my palm and begin to massage the pieces of flesh until they are fully coated.

With a sinewy off-cut of meat, I test the temperature of the pan. There is more of an unfortunate sigh than the intense sizzle I want. I stand back for a minute more, waiting. Patience is no virtue of mine; I take a handful of the oiled meat and scatter it in the pan. Once a sigh, now more of a roar as the cubes touch the base. I scatter some salt with my clean hand and jiggle the pan, watching as the heat sears the meat and caramelises each piece, each side, until, tilting and tumbling, they fall into the casserole on top of the vegetables. I repeat the process, not once, but twice, jiggling, shaking and tossing the game until it has all been browned.

The pan is not finished with, as I return it to the heat a final time. I reach out for a bottle of white wine, screw capped, Italian, but not local to me, and pour it into the hot pan to deglaze any residual goodness from the base. That hiss, that plume of vapour, that sospiro, a sigh, then violent bubbling before I pour it over the meat.

A good stock is important to me. And, as much as I would like to make my own, I have no time to sit for a few hours while it is made. However, with a disappointing supermarket selection of powdered and gelled stocks, chemical in flavour and unnatural to the palate, it would have been tempting. Fortune is a strange companion, what looked like beer cans at the end of the condiments aisle, were tins of a stock, rich, gelatinous, and as close to the real thing as I would get. I shake the contents and flick up the tab, the temptation to sip is strong. Pouring the amber liquid over the meat, mixing it with the wine, stirring the contents of the casserole. I step back and take pause.

In the fridge, under the counter, I have a tube of tomato purée. I only need a gesture, a mouse’s paw. In reality, more of a cat’s paw. I remove the top and pierce the foil before squeezing the small amount into the dish, stirring it gently to dissolve into the stock sauce.

But this dish would be nothing without some herbs, some added aromas; without something to lift an ordinary stew into a more outstanding meal.

Pearls of purple, so dark they are almost black. Perfumed berries that give the sweetened rounded flavour to a particular type of spirit that I am also fond of. Another stall in the same covered market offered a wide variety of aromatics, tempting me to buy so much more than some juniper, but I remained focused. I take a tablespoon of the berries, tilt them onto the board, catching runaways, and with the side of the knife press them down until they split, until the paler interiors are exposed, until the heady scent is released. Juniper may be used in other dishes, but for a game and hearty meal, it is the most wonderful marriage of flavours.

However, there is one more thing that I want to add. I brace myself for the cold night air and, with a pair of scissors, and the light of a torch, descend the stairs to the front door and step outside into the garden and head to where, in the daylight earlier, I have seen a bush. Rosemary. That hardy, alluring perennial. Wherever I spy the plant I like to run my fingers through the fronds, being mindful of the bees in warmer months, allowing the aroma to caress my senses, to linger on me, to take it with me, such is my liking for this heavenly herb. A couple of sprigs are all I want. The ground damp beneath my feet, I tread carefully, not wanting to bring any mud inside. I remove my shoes and take the stairs quickly, and quietly, my prize in hand. I shake the moisture off the stems and drop one in with the meat.

I place the glass lid on the casserole and crouching low, push it onto the oven shelf, quickly shutting the door. Turning swiftly to the bag of newly bought books, purchased from the shop on the gallery, I take pot luck and pick out a crime novel set, ironically, in Italy. I move to the drawing room and curl my feet up on a chair revelling in the thriller. And, in a rather large Martini, made from locally distilled gin, that has been offered to me. Time to settle down for a while. Time to read.

A slow cooked stew will probably be consumed more quickly than it deserves, such is the need for warmth and comfort. But I am prepared to prove otherwise. A strong gin, however, leaves me feeling more relaxed than maybe it is right to be, as I return to the kitchen. The tangy spirit’s lick contrasts with the almost palpable mellow aroma coming from the oven.

Cold water shoots out of the faucet with unintended force. It is the anticlockwise turn that throws me, and for a second, I am covered by a light spray of chilled liquid. At once, annoying and refreshing. I take care to fill a pan, then lightly salt the water. The hob is turned up fully, giving me time to reach into the bag and take out some potatoes. Time to rub my thumb over the skins, time to rinse them, and place them on the chopping board. My mood, a more lazy option, is for crushed potatoes rather than a mash or purée, and, with my knife to hand, I roughly cut them into regular shaped chunks, leaving the cleaned skin on. The turbulent boil comes quickly, and I throw in the pieces. A few minutes or so, enough for some chopping.

On the board, I lay out the garnishes: some parsley, a few more berries and, the smaller of the two sprigs of rosemary. I start with the more neutral of the herbs, the parsley. Flat leaf, slightly peppery. Watching the leaves darken as the knife, cutting through, slicing, piling them up, cutting again, slicing again, shrinking them into a green confetti, the scent as refreshing as newly cut grass. I scrape the mound to one corner of the board. Again, with an unnecessary neatness, unbecoming of my usual nature. Picking up the rosemary, I pull the twig through my fingers, removing all the needles into a pile in the centre of the board. I slowly start to chop, the cuttings having a habit of jumping from one place to another. I rearrange them, pulling them back and together, then place the berries amongst them. Pressing down with the side of the knife, crushing them as flat as I can, and start to cut and merge them with the herb, hoping that any moisture will not create ugly clumps. The mixture becomes fine. Is fine.

Two piles. Two garnishes. One meal.

The knife tip tests the resistance of the potatoes, the doneness. I drain them into the colander and let them sit for a moment, a spectre of steam swirling above, to ensure they have drained thoroughly before returning them to the pan. Slowly, using the back of a serving spoon to press down on the pieces, breaking them into a smaller sizes, I add a knob of butter, some pepper from a small wooden mill, and most of the parsley. Agitating, slicing, with the side of the spoon. Stirring, more gently, combining it, before mounding the mixture into a cereal bowl, where normally, I would have another type of dish.

Steam fogs up my glasses, I never learn, as I open the oven door and reach in to remove the casserole. Peering over the top of my frames, like a disappointed school teacher, I place the dish onto a place mat on the work surface. I turn, shut the oven door and twist the knob to turn off the power.

The finale. The pace has just increased. And, I am racing to bring all the elements together. But, for some reason, Ravel’s Bolero starts to hum in the back of my mind; one of those tunes that will probably stay with me into the early hours when I am trying to sleep. That rhythmic strum slowly becoming an almighty crescendo is not far, in my mind, from the slow meditative chopping of the soffritto to the final rush that presents itself to me now. Perhaps the Martini was strong after all. Perhaps. Perhaps it was not strong enough.

I quickly rinse out the pan that the potatoes were in and place the colander on top. Lifting the glass lid of the casserole, I pour out the contents into the colander to drain the juice, returning the rest back into the dish. I turn the lid upside down and place it back in the oven, balancing two dinner plates and the bowl with the potatoes on top of the inverted lid. The oven door is shut and I focus on the sauce turning the hob up to its fullest heat. To reduce. To thicken.

On this hob, the reduction is faster than I expect; a good thing, even if I am not quite ready. The bubbles start to change consistency, from wide roll to an energetic petillance, creating a richer and more intense flavoured sauce. It is at this point that I start shouting, merely as a suggestion, that it is time to move to the table. Move!

All the elements are coming together; the hob is turned off, the oven door is opened and the plates laid out side by side. The casserole lid is lifted and I stir in the enriched sauce, ensuring the pan is truly scraped clean with a spatula. With the serving spoon, I scoop out a large portion of potato and try to shape the measure against the side of the bowl, no easy task given its size and shape. It is a pseudo-quenelle in shape, which is good enough for me, as I place it slightly to the side, slightly off-centre, on one plate and step back to repeat the process with the other. Grabbing, quite indelicately, the finely chopped parsley, I scatter a pinch over each potato pile. Barely looking.

Perspiration now flows from my forehead, perhaps from the heat, perhaps from the pressure, maybe from the Martini. Maybe. With a ladle, I scoop out a hefty portion of the stew and pour it onto the plate, semi-circled around the potato. No splashes, but I have a cloth at the ready. I repeat it with the second plate. Just before I swirl around to offer up the meal, a Dervish in the kitchen, I take a pinch of the extra rosemary and juniper garnish, scattering it over the plated meat to refresh the flavours that have been mellowed by the cooking process. The plates are set down on the table. I wipe my brow with the tea towel that I have been using as an apron and, sitting down, pour myself a glass of wine. And stop.

Bare plates, empty glasses. Music ceases to fill the room. The meal, in all honesty, probably was consumed more quickly than it deserved. Its joyous aromas, like a memory, lingering on even as the kitchen lights are turned off. An extraordinary post feast sleepiness pulls me to bed. I take off my clothes, tossing them carelessly on an armchair and stretch, rolling my shoulders and neck this way and that. Looking out of the window a last time before drawing the curtains. The jagged edges of an icy landscape, this crisp, cloudless evening, glisten in the cold blue moonlight on the other side of the leaded windows. I am coddled, comforted by the richness of my meal, and yet, I still give a small shudder.

A hart leaps in the winter landscape. Or perhaps, this time, I imagined it.

The heart leaps at a hearty stew.

Each new year the sea welcomes me. Perhaps it is a cleansing ritual, a baptismal arrangement with Father Time, a washing away the old and a yearning for something better in the year to come. Perhaps. I carefully remove my clothes, not wishing to lose my balance as they are shed, layer by layer. I wade in. Quickly. A pace at which, there is no going back.

Ice cold water splashes my face as I turn to see how far I have gone. My mind, always active, always seeking problems where there may be none, is calmed by the meditation of the wide open strokes. A distracting, slow rhythm, tested by the deceptive tide. While the sky is a brilliant blue, clear and cloudless, the winter sun is not strong enough to do any more than gently warm my shoulders and neck as I make each kick, each spanned manoeuvre beachwards. Cold, icy water it may be, but like an iceberg, the majority, what floats beneath has become indifferent to the chilled sea. Even so, I cannot feel my fingers or toes.

In the final moments, with the final movements, a problem is resolved. I lunge down, immersing myself completely, grabbing a stone that a foot was resting on. A particular shape that caught my eye. My eyes, although squeezed tightly shut still sting. Briney water rushes off me as I rise, stone in hand, like a king with an orb, out of the lightly rolling sea and step onto the stoney shore as naked and shameless as Adam himself. Back to my clothes. My ritual done. The aroma of ozone stays with me, as I return to the car, as if I had been embraced by Neptune himself. Or maybe it is the stone.

My life, or the evidence of it, is in boxes. Dozens of them. Abandoned in a storage facility near some parallel mountainscape, where, until I am able, I cannot access those things I need. Or think I need.

Bathing provided a handsome solution. The pestle and mortar set, as dark and granitic as it is, must feel at home in the unit in the hills. However, the stone, the ovalene shape, the size of an apple, fitting neatly in my palm, it is a natural substitute for what I want to do today.

This is the time of year, the early days of January, when daylight disappears quickly, sucking away the pleasure found in the colours of the kitchen: the food, the fruits, the wines. An unnatural light above shines its tinted yellow over the worksurface as I lay out my stall for tonight’s supper. Even the blade of my knife doesn’t glisten as keenly as I gently test the sharpness of its edge on the pad of my thumb. It will do.

Christmas celebrations were simple this season. No fuss. No ostentation. Possibly a drink too many. Possibly. But what was left over is slowly being eaten in different and unplanned ways. And we are already into January. The shops opened. The discounts started. The oven, on. High.

I pick out a couple of potatoes. Large and surprisingly well hidden in a small wooden fruit crate that has become a temporary drawer of a temporary kitchen. I find them sitting at the back, under an empty plastic bag. An empty plastic bag? Maybe a drink too many, after all. Maybe.

No mood for peeling. No will. No time. I use my thumb pad, the same one that risked a knife score or two, and rub the skins under cold running water. Holding them down on the board, I eyeball them for cutting. For slicing. For dicing. The blade makes easy and quick work of the two. The curves, I have discarded, where normally I would oil and bake them, salt them and serve them as something to nibble. The small squares, the size of those old fashioned, sugar cubes of yesteryear’s diners and cafés, I drop into a pan of salted water for later.

The stone, I plunged for, pearl diver style. The stone, I had boiled for over an hour, or more, the moment I returned to the kitchen. The stone is placed carefully within reach, ready for the moment that my restless mind has imagined.

A plastic bowl is brought out from a neutrally clear storage box filled with other bowls of different hues and textures. Glass bowls. Metal bowls. Bamboo ones. The colour, a landlady lipstick pink, clashes with everything else that I have. Even with my mind. It was a cheap purchase. But better than the lime coloured alternative, believe me. I place it on the surface next to the stone.

I pull away a single garlic clove from its bulb. The purple parchment wrapping contains the perfect, plump perfumed gift inside. A more wonderful accompaniment to a meal is hard to find. I think you may have to trust me with that thought. Just one is enough. I lift the skin from the root with my nail, peeling it upwards. Trimming the root, I drop it in the bowl.

My fingers and palm cautiously mould themselves around the stone, testing its form. I lift it up and lightly tap it down on the clove, breaking it under the weight. Enough pressure to split the whole into a fibrous fan, but not much more. I place it back on the worksurface, turn around and open the fridge door.

A wonderland of dairy can be found on the top shelf of my refrigerator: butter, yoghurt, maybe some bread, yes, it is not dairy, and, of course, cheese. Chunks, rinds, blocks. Wax-papered inside and foiled on the outside, the large wedge of Parmigiano Reggiano, Parmesan, Parm, shimmers next to the fridge’s light. A light, I might add, that is brighter than the one in the kitchen. I lay it on a chopping board ready to unwrap later, to de-layer, if you will. The door remains open for a minute more as I look for the herbs, hidden amongst the rucola, brassicas and other greens in the bottom drawer.

Basil leaves, imported at this time of year, come in a trough of clear plastic. The very second I begin my work, my nose is filled with the sweet perfume, hints of liquorice and sharp herbaceous tanginess, as I pull each leaf off the pale stems and drop them down into the bowl over the pressed garlic.

Unwrapping the cheese, my fingers are left with a lingering unpleasant smell as I bring the block to the grater. They have an aroma that hints of sourness, sweat even. But the smelliest of cheeses are often the best. Often. My grating device seems to shave the lactose block closer than my own beard clippers my chin as the falling flakes become a large pile on the chopping board.

Before I start, I reach for a frying pan and place it on the hob. It is intrusively large for so small a task. I use the blade of my knife to trim off the top of a small pack of pine nuts. The shrill raining sound as they bounce on the surface of the frying pan echoes around the kitchen. Louder than you would credit for such small seeds. I find a lighter and twist a knob. A click and cough, and the blue flame begins its warming of the pan base. The moment the nutty perfume hits my senses, I lift and swirl. Where a glistening release of the oils may be enough, I allow a small amount of colouring as well, for an added toastiness. I pour them into a small enamel dish to cool a little.

A colourful tub that comes from France and has a cork lid, holds a key ingredient. Sea salt. I have saved the left over lids as drinks mats, my life being as boxed and wrapped as it is. But it is good advice for anyone, should I be asked. I take a large pinch and scatter, like confetti, the crystals over the basil and garlic.

I take the stone again. This time it will be the star of this minor performance. My inner Neanderthal reveals himself as I start to pound the basil leaves with the garlic. There is a joy in the beating as the leaves soften and the clove pastes its sticky paste. I pause for a moment to examine the stone’s work. Working it around the edge of the bowl to see if anything has been missed. Then, reaching out to the small bowl holding the pine nuts, I pour and pound again. The mixture will not be as smooth as a machine made one, however, I remain hopeful that the textural pleasure will outweigh any of the aesthetic faults. I take a large pinch of cheese and throw that into the bowl, noticing how the paste is becoming thicker. My enthusiasm, a dangerous thing, is increasing as I pour in green amber liquid: extra virgin olive oil. Locally grown, it adds a grassy, peppery lick to the sweeter basil mixture. My stone punches are becoming more intense as the final battle between paste and sauce reaches its conclusion. Cheese. Oil. Cheese. Oil. Moisture glistens on my brow and my arm aches as I examine the texture, a richness that my purposes demand. I am done. The side of my finger cleans the base of the stone, dropping any excess into the bowl before licking it, purely for tasting purposes. Purely.

My work is yet to stop, but the stone, Poseidon’s gift, can retire until the next time. I pause.

From the box of bowls, I pull out a colander, a bowl with holes, perhaps, to drain the potato cubes and refresh the water in the pan. The gas ring coughs its blue flame and I wait for the salted water to come slowly to the boil. I am going to cook the tiny tuber squares for a few minutes before draining them. Someone I worked with recently told me, cold potatoes crisp better when tossed in hot fat. In all my years cooking, that is news to me. However, time has not walked hand in hand with me through this cooking endeavour and they will cool for as long as I take to complete the next task.

I re-open the fridge and take out a baking tray. That ozone smell returns. The smell of a fresh fish waiting to be prepared takes me for the moment out of the kitchen and back beyond the shoreline, into the deeper currents of my imagination. Something a supermarket shelved fish rarely does. I have a fillet of salmon collected from the fishmonger after the swim. Salty siblings, we might have been, had one of us not been trawled sooner.

Some things are hidden. Obscured. Concealed. So many items forgotten. Absentmindedly. Here, behind the milk, behind the tonic, behind the prosecco, in the fridge door, unremembered until recently, was a packet of ham. Parma Ham. Until they had been used, consumed, drunk, it remained there. Hidden.

My patience is tested yet again. I use the knife to slice the plastic cover, I am not one to struggle with that supposedly helpful, lifting corner that is often impossible to peel. I start my attempt to separate each slice and lay it down on the chopping board. A delicate operation. Painful in its demand for patience. I have none. I persevere. Each slice overlapping slightly the next.

I lift the salmon from the tray and lay it on top of the ham, horizontal, centred. With a large spoon, I scoop out some pesto sauce and smear it over the top of the fillet and begin to fold over the meat. First the bottom tips, closest to me, then, the other side, meeting them in the middle.

I am rather partial to being a rebel. Here in Italy the idea of cheese and fish is rather frowned upon. A nonna or two might even offer up a silent prayer at the suggestion. But while there is not enough cheese in a pesto sauce to cause a fuss, I smile to myself knowing someone, somewhere will tut.

With a tilting motion of the board, my fingers slip under the ham wrapped fish, I take care to transfer the piscine package to a baking sheet. I leave it to rest. Time enough for it to lose some of the fridge’s chill before cooking.

I take a pause. Driven by the music of New York bars playing in the background, I prepare myself an aperitif.

Martini. My fingers, safe from the sheer edges of the steel knife, the chopping stopped, reach into a bag-for-life shopping bag, finding a lidded plastic jug, designed for fridge corners and long life juices. Ice, from the freezer section, freed by twisting manipulations from their tray, drop into the jug. Martini. The American drink with an Italian name, made with French vermouth. Usually.

There is vermouth, extra dry, on the work surface, and fridge cool gin, condensation on the bottle. Both, I might add, from Turin. I pour out a glug of the juniper brew, and splash a drop of the pale gold wine, not being one that merely shows the bottle to the spirit. With an old reliable peeler, I shave off a couple of strips of lemon zest, and note happily that there is little white on the reverse of their waxy yellow flesh as they drop into the mix. A quick stir with a teaspoon and into a glass it goes. My lungs cry out from the alcohol punch as it swells down to my sternum. I shudder and get back to what I must do.

The oven has long since heated up, and, standing by it as I prepare this meal, I have taken advantage of the warmth. But now, as I open the door, the heat, a searing slap of centigrades, hits my face, shocking my brow. The tray of wrapped fish slides in and the door is slammed shut quickly.

Roles reverse, again. Potato. Fish. Fish. Potato. I exchange the pan for a skillet. A blue crown of flame starts to warm the base of the frying pan. I leave it over the heat for a minute or so, then coat the surface in oil. The glassy green liquid shimmers and thins rapidly, swirling around the base of the pan as I lift it up. I pick up the colander and tip in the cubes. A satisfying sizzle taking away any silence from the sanctuary of the kitchen.

The flowers of salt, as the French suggest, scatter over the top and I toss, chef style, one hand. All up. All back down.

I am looking for a honey goldened cube with a tender bite rather than a crispy, hard-edged nugget.

All up. All back down. All the while keeping an eye on the time, an ear to the music, and the lips to the spirits.

All up. All back down. I continue. The potatoes, their colour taking slowly, are nearly ready. Timing is, as they say, everything. And I am hoping that my timing, never having had a reliable inner clock, will work. The fish and potatoes ready, more or less, at the same time. Together.

All up. All back down. One final time. The gas hiss gone, the pan’s sizzle continues as I open the oven door to examine the fish. The lack of a timer raises, against my better nature, a forced optimism in me.

Trust. Steam releases the smell of salty ham and sea brine fish, and an underlying hint of basil and garlic, though I cannot for the life of me see anything through the condensation on my glasses. Trust. The oven off, I use a cloth to lift out the baking tray, raising it to the counter. Plates replace the tray, to warm for a minute, and, using my thumb to check the doneness, I test the fish. Trust. A gentle prod, I do not want any sauce squeezed out before I serve.

The plates, one a serving platter, and one dinner plate, are brought to the counter. I set out my place at the table, pouring some white wine, a local Pecorino, into a tumbler, lighting a few candles, checking the music. Atmospherics, I guess you might call it.

The potato cubes scatter here and there around the larger plate. A seasoned shingle of tuber for the fish to lay on. Finding an appropriately wide utensil, I lift the salmon carefully and place it onto the sauteed squares. With an unnecessary pride, I carry the fish feast, enough for two, to the table, inhaling joyfully the perfume of Parma ham and pesto, of salmon, and more subtly, the creamier note of potatoes, presenting it to my audience of one.

Me.

Dust. Dust has flurried, settled, then risen up again. The room filled with sun speckled spores at my merest move. A great wall of boxes, a monument to my endeavours, has seemingly become a testament to my life. Each moment, each memory, wrapped carefully, stored away under a cardboard and tape seal. Each one, once packed, taking me closer to a new home. Each one, once moved, has stirred up another discovery of dust. It should shame me. I. Care. Not. I am moving.

It is hot. Fearsomely hot. My poor skin´s pores are so plugged by dust I can barely sweat. And yet, stripped down to nothing but my shorts, I still manage to. So, I have taken a step outside. Away from the carton wall. Away from sealed up reminiscences. Out to the shaded terrace to contemplate, to think, decide on what to prepare when hunger finally overcomes the suppressive heat. The summer sky, unblemished save for a feather-like cloud that sits solitary, slowly evaporating, disappearing. The contrasting blue so brilliant my eyes water. Or do they water because of the dust? Skin crisping sun offers a small spark. An idea.   

Fire beats fire. Heat, in my case, must surely beat heat. It is a risk I am prepared to take.  

I have taken a duck breast fillet from the bottom of the fridge. Carefully depackaging it, I pat the garnet flesh and ivory skin with kitchen paper from an oversized roll that makes me feel like Lewis Carrol´s Alice. Firmly holding my knife, I quickly but cautiously start to slice the cold fatty skin, side to side, spacing each score, each cut, evenly, at a biased angle from one end of the fillet to the other. I lay it on a baking tray and sprinkle salt into and over the grooves to leech out some liquid, to help the skin crisp. Overnight would be better but there is no time. The salt can work for as long as it takes for the meat to come to room temperature. An awkward phrase in this heat. While the duck is warming, I slip out of the kitchen, slip out of my shorts, and languish in the coolness of a slow streaming, cold faucet only, shower. My hands rest above me on the shower wall as the tickling trickle runs the length of my spine. Each shocked gasp turning into grateful mumblings. I will stay under for as long as it takes for me to feel refreshed. Squanderous? Maybe.

I return to the kitchen, still barely clad. I have packed away so much that the set of shelves behind me has become a homage to all things silver grey. A monochrome of culinary living. I turn and take a deep steel pan from the stack and place it on the largest hob. Stock. Chicken. I pour in a good measure. The phosphorescent fizzing match lights the hob underneath and I leave it to come to a simmer.   

Brown paper skin from an onion tears away and scatters to the surface. The lightest breeze through the kitchen window helps them continue their leaf-like journey to the floor, a nod to a longed-for autumn and a cooler season. I will clean up later. I pull away the root hairs from the base and reach for the knife, the blade casually cleaned on a damp cloth. The onion is halved, then each is brought to the edge of the board so the blade can slide, unhindered by its shoulders, horizontally. Twice. Right to left. Tip to tail. I turn it, root away, and chop down, the tip millimetres from the base. Finally, a fine slice, reducing the half globe into a tear duct aggravating dice. I pause, scrunching my eyes until the final tear is forced out.

Rust. Dried blood. The colour of the sausage, a sweet chorizo. The aroma of paprika and cured pork becomes more evident as I chunk the coarse meat, watching it stain, orange red, across the chopping board. The pieces although small are quite firm.

From a box under the worksurface I pull out my food processor. A weighty, steel contraption designed in Connecticut and favoured by Julia Child, that has served me well. I raise it slowly to the counter, taking into account my already aching back, and find an electrical socket. It demands a percussion of clicks, twists and clunks to work. Click. I lower the blade onto the central column. Click. I turn the bowl. It settles in place. I throw in the chopped chorizo and, clunk, push down the lid. More clicks, twists and it locks. Hot work for a fine chop. While the whirr-stop, whirr-stop of the ´Pulse´ button has a peculiarly childish temptation, I resist. Instead, a luminous blue button impels me to press it: on. The machine begins. Chorizo is not a quiet ingredient. The chunks rattle around like balls in a prize tombola.  I am not lucky. I slowly watch as the sausage pieces become red crumble. A luminous blue button impels me to stop it: off. The dervish blade stops its dance. I lift the lid and check if it is finely chopped enough. It is.  

I turn again to the chromatic shelves and find my frying pan. Pristine, charcoal grey, non-stick coating on the inside, but with a patina on the outside that reminds me of tobacco-stained Parisian café walls in the Latin Quarter of my younger days. I lift it up, lollipop style and give it a twizzle, a baton swirl, before setting it down next to the hob. I force a used matchstick, pinched between my fingers, to the lit hob underneath the simmering stock pan. A yellow glow tells me it has taken. With a cough the neighbouring hob is lit, the match extinguished, the ghostly whisp of smoke a memory as the frying pan is centred over the blue flames. I slide in the onion pieces and reach for the bidon of olive oil by my feet. The lichen liquid spills over the small dice, a hiccoughing glug or two. Perhaps a little too much. I lower the bottled oil back to the floor and look for the salt. Sea salt. With everything being moved, being packed, a sense of panic forms if the most usual of ingredients is not in its place. The salt cellar is not visible, but in the cupboard is the original packet. I reach for that, and a jar of the fieriest chilli flakes ready to use in a moment. The crystals are shed over the onion, and I wait. The gas will be lowered only when they start to sizzle. It does not take long.

An abandoned bulb of garlic, the last in a basket of aromatic alliums that I am using up before I leave. I pull it apart. The purple cloves sit plump on chorizo-tinged melamine. I take three, probably one or two too many for some, and press down on each with the ball of my palm until the aromatic flesh inside succumbs. I peel away the skin and trim off the root with the knife. Bringing them together, I start to rough chop, then flicking the pieces back into the centre, start a finer chop. I take a pinch of the salt to help break the fibres down and crumble it from above. The side of the knife´s blade presses down on the mound, slowly turning it all into a purée. The pile is lifted to the corner of the chopping board. My finger slides down the side taking any leftover garlic and dropping it with the rest, leaving me with fragrant fingerprints.

The onion dice are a glassy mosaic, I open the jar of chilli next to the salt packet and reach in for a large pinch. Flame red flakes fleck the onions. Specks of heat dotted with white seed. A quick stir and they are mixed in. Turning to the food processor, I untwist, de-top, remove the bowl with minced sausage like a true engineer. My yellow spatula scrapes every last crumble into the frying pan, and I turn up the heat. Stirring it into the cebolline pieces. Slowly, the paprika oils leech away from the meat and redden the onions.

From the fridge, I find a tube of tomato purée. So many times have I de-cinched a waistline, squeezed the bottom, forced the paste upwards. This time though, the end has been curled over in a metallic scroll to ensure there is no waste. I mouth a grateful thank you, only for the briefest moment as I focus on the concentrate. Melding. Merging. Adding another depth of flavour.   

A flip top glass jar of rice remains in the correct place. The last of the grains needing to be used up before it too goes into a box, stuffed with paper, wrapped in bubbled plastic and lowered into a dark corner of a box with other kitchen ware. I lift the catch and tilt the jar. Tumbling several handfuls into the frying pan. One. Two. Three. And some more, just in case. No real measurements, no cups. Just an eye-balling haphazardness. Only a few beads are left, I tilt them in with a shrug. I return the jar and start to stir the rice into the spicy sausage base, making sure there is an evenness in the mixture. So much for haphazardness.

In my mind, in the pre-shower, sunsetting, sun-sweating vision, I wanted to have fire. I wanted colour. But I also wanted an authenticity of flavour, though the method is as far from it as you can get. Now, I am about to deviate further. I will blame my heat addled head.

I find a bottle of Oloroso sherry, bought for cooking, somehow quite evaporated, and splash the remnants over the rice. A perfumed drop to further tilt the flavour in a Hispanic direction. The hiss is angry, as if the dish knows I am not being authentic. The aroma taunts my senses. I follow this with a deep, garnet coloured red wine, a glassful or so. I am not measuring. This time I wait until the rice all but absorbs it. Finally, with a mug that I normally use for coffee, I scoop in stock, hot and hearty, from the large pot.

I pick up an orange. A solitary citrus, so small in its oversized basket. A peeler carefully lifts off some strips, the citric tang will cut through the mellow, smoky, richer scents in the frying pan. One or two stirs with the spatula, a careful adjustment of the flame below, and I step back. Turn around.

Beads of perspiration form on my forehead the size of the grains in my pan. As a rule, I would not normally walk away from my cooking. Any cooking. I fiddle and fuss. But this Spanish rice is not demanding, nor needy. It is a different variety to the starchier risotto rice that requires care. Attention. And so, walk away I can. And must. No stirring. No fussing. Instead, I will prepare a drink to help me relax into the evening. Something as sharp as it is mellow, as cool as the night breezes, and as crisp as freshly laundered sheets.

A chime of ice cubes fall into a large tumbler. I am grateful I packed away the smaller glasses. A canary yellow storage box in the hallway has the last of the bottles to be moved or used up. I pick out the ones I need. With the same care as the rice, I pour myself the potent mixture, a reckless alcohol cascade. Proof, percentage proof, that I need it.

The tension, like the heat in the kitchen, increases. The oven is now on. High. The duck breast fillet is ready to cook. With a wettened paper towel, I rub off the salt. Another frying pan. Older. More patina. More memories. It sits over a ring awaiting heat. I strike a match, the smell clashing with the aromas that fill the kitchen and lean in to light the hob. I wait, hovering my palm once or twice, just above the pan base, to test the heat until the pan is ready. It does not take long.

Skin hisses as it touches metal. An adjustment of heat and I push the plump plummy grey flesh around the base with my fingers, while the fat beneath renders. Releases. But for my moving, but for my leaving, I would save it for frying potatoes. I cannot. I hold the meat as I tilt the pan, draining the liquid into a small bowl. I hold my glass and tilt it back draining a large portion of my drink. A slice, from the zested orange, falls from one end of the tumbler tapping me on the nose as if to say enough. Concentrate.

Draining the last of the fat away, I lift the duck and check the sliced skin for caramelisation. Decisiveness, not my forte, I make my move. Quickly. Precisely. Lifting and flipping the breast fillet. Turning it crisped skin up. Placing it centred on the baking tray. With deft manoeuvring, I open the oven door, slide in the tray and slam it shut. A swiftness that would be admired by the still dozing dogs were they not still running through the olive groves of their dreams. Only a few minutes, I wait. A couple more, perhaps.

I take a moment to see the transformed rice. The liquids all but gone. Absorbed. The glistening grains, coloured by the wine, by the tomato, by the chorizo, are raised up, sat like shingle on a beach. I take a teaspoon and test a few from the edge of the pan. There is just enough resistance. Enough time for the duck to rest. Enough time perhaps, for a socarrat to form, that crusted base that I have yet to master.

Good things come to those who wait, or so I am told. I am not patient. But I am hopeful that tonight´s dish, my finale, my last in this kitchen, will be just that. Good. The alarm pricks my daydreaming bubble. And I reach for a cloth, folding it lengthways, in half, in half again. Then halve the length to double the thickness so I can keep hold of the searing dish while it is out. I take a breath then swiftly open the oven door, pull out the sizzling duck, shut it quickly. The waft of heat instantly drying my sweating brow. Still holding the tray, I use my thumb to test the resistance of the meat. Another minute or so will get it to the springiness I want. Not too bloody. Not so pink. Not at all solid. No. I return it to the oven and count down in my mind. One Mississippi… Two…

A chopping board for meat, grooved along the edge, is lined with paper towel in anticipation of leeching juices. The countdown, for what it was worth, is complete and the meat, now out of the oven, will rest. The crisped, tawny skin, pillowed amongst white paper. The flesh nestled infant-like underneath.

I turn the heat off from under the rice, place some deep bottomed plates in the oven, and find a few limp strands of parsley in the bottom drawer of the fridge. Placing them on another small board, I chop. A rough chop. A rustic look. Not my usual standard but enough to show willing. The pile is scraped to the corner of the board with the back of my knife.

Moving reveals, what items, what gadgets, have long been forgotten. Something in a corner of the worksurface that has escaped the packing process brings a smile. Why not? I pick up the zested orange, part used in my drink, cut some fine half-moon slices and set them out in rows. The cold steel of a blow torch conceals a fiery power. I twist a knob, releasing the butane, click the trigger with my forefinger. Flame, blue and brilliant, glows in the mellowing light of the evening kitchen. A slight twist to sharpen the flame´s focus and I lower it over the orange slices. Not too close. I watch the juice bubbling from the rind, transforming, lightly charring. I inhale the sweet aroma. I am fascinated. I am hypnotised. Stop! I quickly turn off the gas and put the torch to the edge of the counter. The segments spread out at the edge of the board. I am ready.  

Time. The duck nested in paper is ready to be cut. The knife, a meat knife, a widow-black wooded handle and elongated blade, is as sinister as it is sharp. I begin. Each slice made is guided by the groove in the crisped, crusted skin. Each slice, as it falls, is darker, bolder in colour as the knife works towards the centre. The outer tips of the fillet. The chef´s perks. They go to the dogs these days. And as if on cue, they trot in, sensing something here is for them. Wait.

The plates come out. Hot. It is a late summer evening, but in this kitchen the temperatures around me make me feel like it is noon. I get a wooden spatula from my kitchen box, soon to be sealed up again, save for this last meal. Holding the panhandle, I dig deep into the rice. Socarrat? Sadly, not. The base is caramelised but soft. Not enough to win any prizes. I sigh, too late for remorse. I portion the rice into the bowl of the plates. I edge the rice with a few overlapping slices of the duck on one side. On the other three scorched orange pieces, laid out to compliment the meat. With a flourish I scatter some rough-cut parsley roughly over the top.

Outside, the sun is set, and the warm winds cooled slightly. A shirt, for propriety, is slipped on quickly and I bring the remainder of the wine that I used for cooking to the table. A bloody red, hearty red from the heart of La Mancha. I have stopped. I am sat. Slumped. Beside the house. Away from the kitchen. Under silhouetted olive trees and a darkening night sky that has started to reveal the constellations.

Tonight, I feast. A version of an arroz. An interpretation. A spicy, chorizo and wine reddened rice with duck and golden orange slices that will heat my core and cool my skin. Spanish colours in an Andaluz dusk. Tomorrow, I head out. A new home. A new adventure. A new kitchen beckons.

Thunder rumbles behind the mountains. Perhaps there will be some much-needed rain at last…    

Fairwell and adieu, to you Spanish ladies

Fairwell and adieu, to you ladies of Spain…

The pale, dimpled skin and pink flesh of a chicken, although like a gift in unwrapped wax-lined paper and bathed in the light of the setting sun that angles through the kitchen window, it seems curiously unappetising, leaving me cold. And yet, grilled, fried, or roasted, I love chicken. Maybe it is the heat of the changed season. Maybe. Memories give me pause.

Another setting sun, another place. The apartment then was set directly below a terracotta tiled roof terrace in the searing heat of an Andalucian summer. The reliably insulating clay absorbed as much warmth as it could for the sticky night ahead. The kitchen, a small space attached to the main living area was surely an afterthought. A trivial sized window that was meant to let out heat, barely let in light. The dividing wall, fitted long after the floor tiles, sat atop of them, a paso doble from the oven. That was where I first attempted cooking this dish, nearly one thousand kilometres from its original creation, a further five hundred from the cookbook I so desperately needed to get the recipe right. The heat left us more thirsty than hungry. We were drunk before we ate. So drunk we had little appetite. So hot we fell asleep quickly. So hot, the remaining food, left out overnight, began to take on a different, more unpleasant aroma by dawn.

Memories can shake the confidence. Even so, I draw my knife from the block, holding it with a firmness that is perhaps a little too tight.

My chopping board, a large wooden square, grooved around the edge for clumsier times, carries vegetables: an onion, a carrot and some celery sticks. With a rapidity that surprises me, I top and root the onion. The parchment, a pale envelope brown, peeled away to expose the opal green flesh. It is so young the pungency stings my eyes. Smarts them. I roughly chop it. The carrot, washed, remains unpeeled, large and gnarled. I chunk the bright orange body, narrow slices at the head and wider ones where the tip tapers, discarding the navel-like top where the foliage was torn away. Ripping off the leaves from the celery sticks, I throw them into the liquid to add more perfume. The peppery stems are also cut at each end and then sliced widely. I realise I am using the knife with a dangerous glee. Everything goes into the pot. Everything.

Placing the pot over the largest hob ring, I pour in a large jug of water and scatter some aromatics: crushed, fresh bay leaves, thyme, peppercorns. Herbs casually thrown as if the simplest heated water will turn biblically into a bouillon by the merest bouquet garni. There is a block of frozen stock, a remnant from a previous experiment with chicken that is too saline to use without weakening it with other liquids. I release it from its plastic surround and drop that in. Everything must go in.  

I breathe deeply as I reach for a match. I am about to cook that dish. The dish of yesteryear. Though the ingredients may be the same, the method will be different. My own. A satisfying trail of smoke rising from the blackened head as the gas is lit. I begin.

The bouillon is bubbling. It has taken some time. Steam rises. My brow and the condensation on my now empty glass are practically twins. I lift the chicken up by the drums´ ends. Slowly, I lower it into the hot liquid bath. Ensuring it is submerged, or as close as it can be. A few minutes to the pound is all I need.   

Three large chorizo, the softer, squeezable stewing type, dangle from my fingers. The strings, in Andalucian green and white, a cat´s cradle in my hand. I take each one carefully and lower them into the poaching poultry water, gently tucking them in and around the floating fowl. They slowly sink beneath the flotsam and jetsam of the stock. I top the pot with a lid and start the timer.

I am not idle. While I wait for the poach, I crouch down and hunt in the store cupboards to find the ingredients that will complete the dish, to prepare them for the final part. Nor am I conventional. No. It is true. It is not as if it is a deliberate way of being, a defiant act. It is just the way it is. But while this dish defies the conventions of the original recipe, defies the order, and while I am standing over simmering stock, I do ask myself, why I am preparing a stew in the searing heat when a salad would suffice? I shake my head and sigh. No, indeed, I am not conventional.

My hand reaches into the darkness of the back of the cupboard to retrieve a can of olives, black, pitted. I lift it to the counter. At the front, there is a jar of already cooked and shredded peppers, the oil perfumed with a plastic looking clove. Up it goes. Slipped along the side of the cupboard wall, hidden, I find a pack of saffron, the crispy strands contained in a small pill box-like plastic container. That too gets raised to the worksurface. From a basket I take another onion and a part used bulb of garlic. And from a cupboard, a lidded glass jar of rice.

Plates and bowls sit waiting to be filled with the ingredients that I have taken from below the counter. I tear the ring pulled top off the can of olives and drain away the dirty black brine, giving them a shake to ensure none is left. I do not like Dirty Martinis. They are placed in one bowl while I struggle to open the jar of peppers. It is stuck. I find a rose-coloured rubber glove by the sink, not mine, and reluctantly pushing my hand into it, as if it were distasteful. Posing like a body builder I take a final punt at the lid. It gives. A wry wrinkle of a smile comes to my flushed face, and I hum a chord or two of Ode to Joy before I return to the meal. I pour out the peppers into an orange colander that sits in the sink. It clashes violently with the red of the roasted capsicums. The oil from the jar draining away, joining the brine. The fleshy strips, poured from the colander, slumped into a clear glass bowl.

The alarm goes off. I turn off the hob and, lid still on, lift the stockpot to one side. The chicken will bask in the poaching liquor for as long as it was cooked. Time, even set to an alarm, is on my side.

I walk into another room and put on some swing jazz to get me into a rhythmic-paced chopping mood. I pick up the knife. I pick up the beat. I top and skin the onion, removing the hair at the root with a flick of the blade. There is a debate over which way to cut an onion half. Should the knife cut downwards, then horizontally, or, across then down? I cut the bulb in half and place each section face down. I cut across first, then slice the knife downwards close to the root. I am not radical. Then finally, finely chop the stinging allium into smart, small sized dice. I have a frying pan that I use specifically for dishes of this nature. I find it on a shelf behind me and slide the diamond shaped pieces into it. Picking up a bidon on the floor behind the fridge, I pour a large measure of local olive oil over them. They will keep for a few minutes.

The olives tumble onto the chopping board. Hollow oval fruit, their stones long gone. Purple-black and bitter flavoured. I manoeuvre each one to sit sideways, left to right, and, pausing with my knife in the air, determine three slices of the knife, four small tyre like rings, individual flicks into a small bowl. As I said, I have time. Time enough to sing along with Ella Fitzgerald. Time enough to croon with Dinah Washington. Time enough to hum with Sarah Vaughan. The alarm goes off. Enough. Time´s up.

The aluminium foil is hidden in a basket above the fridge. With one arm, I blindly feel around above my head for the long box until my hand hits something familiar in shape and size. I grab it. Pinching a bit of the metallic foil at the end, I spread my arms outwards and tear off a large silver sheet. I lay it down on the counter in readiness. In a drawer beside the cooker, I rummage around until I find a pair of tongs. Lifting the lid of the stockpot, I slide one prong into the chicken´s cavity, the other clamped on top, I start to lift the fowl upwards. The action, awkward at first, is made easier by using the pot´s wall to help the lifting process. Liquid pours out of the chicken´s core as I tilt it upwards. Some stock dribbles along the arms of the tongs threatening my hand. Not for the first time, I break into a sweat. The chicken breaks free from the bouillon´s hold. In a sweeping movement I swing the tong clutched meat over to the foil and land it centred to be wrapped. The noisy metallic crush fills the kitchen as I fold over the foil and make a rolling seal on the edges around the chicken, and for a few minutes while I move to the next part, it can sit, settle. Relax.

The tempo is shifting. Early evening flies work in tandem with mosquitoes, distracting me while the bloodsuckers draw out their own evening meal from me. I brush some lemon juice on the bites and concentrate. Stirring the murky waters of weak stock with the tongs I find what I am looking for, lifting out one, then two, and finally a third chorizo sausage. I sit them on a plate next to the olives and return the stockpot to the hob. Lighting the gas underneath, I start to reduce the cooking liquor. It has flavour already, but I want to ensure it has almost as much punch as that negroni. I am ever hopeful.

I find a used match and carefully manoeuvre it under the stockpot to light the tip. The flaming taper slowly moves towards a medium hob, at a careful pace, I do not want it to go out. The challenge is for the hob to be lit before my fingers. I watch the flame edge along the match. Twisting the knob, the hob coughs up a neat blue ring of flame just as the tip of my thumb starts to feel the heat. The match, blown out, is discarded, a blackened stick with the smallest hint of untouched wood. A large pinch of sea salt, sprinkled like hail over the oiled onion slices as the frying pan is put into position. My ear close to the pan, I listen for the sizzling sound before lowering the flame.  

The garlic cloves, five, are shed of their purple parchment, leaving me with ivory nuggets. Between each peel, I check on the onions, shaking the pan. I rub each clove tip first along a fine grater, leaving me with a gloriously aromatic mound. I tap the grater on the board to wait their turn. The sticky, perfumed oils permeate the grooves of my fingers. I inhale one more time before running my hand under cold water.   

I have some time in between stirring, before the onions turn translucent, to chop up the chorizo. I trim off the roped ends with the metal loops, then chop into thick slices. I go further. I am making this dish more delicate. I take each chunk and cut into slightly smaller pieces. The reason will become evident as the meal is brought together. Another stir of the onions, and I throw in the sausage. One more stir, and I will select the rice.

Rice. Bomba rice. A paella rice that is as hardy as it is absorbent. My long grain rice jar is near empty, and risotto, a completely different variety of rice, is too starchy and will not work. The grains hiss as they slide from the glass jar into a small bowl, cup sized and as creamy in colour as the rice itself. In a clockwise circle, so as not to invoke the devil, obviously, the rice falls over the onion and chorizo. I stir to coat them in oil then turn up the heat. Cooking wine stands next to the vinegars and other bottled liquids. The protesting sizzle as the out-poured beverage hits the pan, steam rising and dissipating, adds to the sense of heat in the kitchen. The bubbling begins.

In the door of my refrigerator, a tube of Italian tomato purée that, unusually, I imported myself, is curled around a jar of something I have been meaning to throw out for ages. I take it out and remove the red cap. Is the cap red because of the contents, I wonder? A squeeze big enough to compensate for the lack of tinned tomatoes in the cupboard. I stir it into the pan. Coating. Spreading. Loosening it. I slide in the garlic. Stirring that into the mix. I do not want to do anything but heat it through.

My ladle, wide and shallow like a coupe de Champagne, scoops out stock from the simmering pot, four or five measures into the frying pan and I let it be. I head to the parcelled poultry. The chicken looks milky as I pull away the foil. Liquid underneath, leeched out of the resting meat, can go directly into the rice. With the tongs I lift the chicken, moving it to the board with the grooved edge and start. Two forks, silver and slightly tarnished on the tines, lift the flesh away from the bone. I begin, starting on one side with the first breast fillet. The work is quick. Vigorous. Almost brutal. The forks, like knitting needles, occasionally clack as the tips clash. The shreds, fine strands of succulent white meat. A pile that gets higher as the forks make progress around the carcass. I tug at the leg and wing, removing them, then pull off the meat by hand before finessing with the forks. The skin, gelatinous, characterless, I set aside for the dog.

I check the rice and ladle some more of the poaching liquor into it. The saffroned stock has turned the pearlescent pieces a dusky yellow, adding a warm, comforting feel through its colour. I turn the chicken around and begin again. I am not going to use all the chicken. The remaining portion will make a stir fry at a later time. There is no excess. Nor is there waste. Breast fillet, leg, wing. Shredded. The oysters, the small oval muscles along the backbone, I pop out with my fingers. I check to see if anyone is around before consuming them one at a time. They are the chef´s perks, and that is an end to it.  

With elation comes deflation and perhaps the finale of this meal is that. Everything will just be thrown in. A casual culinary shrug. But here I go.

I return my attention to the pan and, taking a teaspoon, test a small grain or two. There is a firmness, the right sort of resistance, as if my teeth have gone into a slow motion during the bite. Tilting the glass bowl, the red peppers slink into the pan. I separate them with a spatula as I mix them in. The olives cartwheel out of their bowl and are stirred in amongst the chorizo and peppers. Finally, I take the shredded chicken, a combination of dark and light meats, and scatter a good handful over the lot. Not for the first time, everything must go in.

Warming through the new ingredients, I ladle one more scoop of scented stock over the rice and turn off the hob. It will rest. Settle. Meld. Another negroni is handed to me and I am ready for it, thank you. My head wet from standing over the hob, over the stockpot, over heated food. I whet my palate and head for the horizon of this culinary odyssey.   

In the bottom drawer of the refrigerator, I have a large bunch of flat leaf parsley. Twisting a handful off I place the leaves on the chopping board and get to work with the knife. The tip held down. The handle gripped. I fine chop one way, then the other. Flick the leaves back into a pile with the blade and start again.

I return to the cupboard above me and pull out a small box, red, tin. Using the tip of the knife I prise open the top. The almost tobacco aroma of paprika releases itself into the air. A smoked gasp.

The bowls are warm enough without the need to force heat on them in the oven. I ladle a good scoop of the mixture into each bowl, watching it quickly spread to the edges. I take a flat edged knife and use it palette-like to dust the top with paprika, then sprinkle some of the chopped parsley over and around the dish with my fingers.

The sun has set, the evening is filled with the sound of cicadas and the warm breeze envelopes me as I step out. Ice, that chinking, clinking sound, trills above the nocturnal noise as we prepare to eat. Perhaps the glacial ringing is an alarm to the traditionalists over the dish that I have served, but I doubt anyone is going to be that strict over a simple supper. This was never really Basque chicken. An interpretation, maybe. A nod, perhaps. Just as much really as the foiled attempt was all those years ago. The ingredients may have been right, or as close as possible, but the method… well, as I said before; I am not that conventional.  

I have the house to myself. Not a word. Not a sound. Save for the breezy sound of burning butane from the hob. I am alone. Alone in the kitchen. Speckles of dust motes floating in the dazzling sunshine my only company. And in my solitude, the memories fill the spaces with thoughts and people, where, normally, the dog might take the room. It might be the medicine.

I take a pan and carefully place it on the hob. A bag, secured by a bright red clip, holds the comforting contents I need to get me through this fog. I measure a cup of oats and pour them into the pan before pinching in some salt, that vital flavour enhancer. Where a small amount has fallen away, I use my forefinger, room temperature hot, to pick up the silver white crystals and flick them over my shoulder. I am not superstitious, but it is best not to take risks in my current state.

Cold water from the faucet fills my cup measurer as I transfer it into the pan. Once. Twice. There is no reason on this earth why I have not brought the pan to the sink, to the water, instead of carefully balancing, steadily walking the liquid heel-to-toe across the kitchen. It is testament to my headiness. The hob goes on. Its rumbling cough sparked by the phosphorescence of the match. The pungent perfume lingering a while after the flame has been extinguished.  

I am stirring. Slowly. Clockwise. A heat so low the oats can absorb the liquid at their leisure. A heat so low and yet I am still sweating on this spring morning. I sense my grandmother standing beside me. The imaginary tutting begins. Half the liquid has been added. I am stirring until it is absorbed then hesitantly adding a bit more. Then a bit more. More? She fills her right cheek with air. Pop. Hiss. Releasing air through the side of her mouth like boiling lava. Chuckling. It is not risotto, she whispers. I can almost feel her breath on my ear. Or is it because of my otherworld-ness?

Ghosts of the past seem to pull at me. Perhaps they seem more real when you lack company. More real in my disjointed state.

Memories place me in a different kitchen. In my apartment in north London. The sultry glow of a single yellow bulb that hangs above the slate worksurface sheds a dim light as I make supper. While London sits under a dank, winter cloud, my apartment is warm, too warm.  If there was life outside, but I need not finish the sentence, there is. I can hear the underground train, the cars, the chatter in the street. But the windows are fogged up, condensation drips down in streaks, and I am enclosed in a viewless kitchen.  However, my focus is preparing my food.

Lighting a match and sparking a long line of flames. I turn the oven on. The deadened flame´s spectral whisps rising from my fingers. I remove a knife from the large wooden block. The blade, recently resharpened professionally, glints a cold steely menace in the light. I find a banana shallot in a basket nearby. The ovalene shape, more pleasing to the palm than a regular allium. A hybrid of a classic shallot and a red onion, it is sweeter, prone to burning quickly, so more care is needed as I fry it. The brown parchment peeled away, I am left with a purple tinged tear. Ironic given the effect it has on me as I start to work the metal through its length. I am left with two halves. I tilt the knife and cut towards the root horizontally. Then turn it, cutting downwards. Turn again, and chop across the arch of the half, watching the small squares tumble across the board. I repeat my knife work with the other half. The pile seems large, but heat will help wilt them. Shrink them. The back of the blade pushes them from the board into a sauté pan beside me.

A clove of garlic. Plump. White. I put it on the worksurface and using the ball of my palm I feel the solid flesh give as I press down from above. The paper skin split, I pull out the cracked clove, trimming the root. Touching the tip of the knife and holding the handle tightly, I rough chop. Then fine chop. Back and forth. A sprinkle of sea salt on the course mound, I hold the blade sideways, paddling, crushing, the remnants, the sodium helping to break the fibres down to a paste.

Cheese. The roughest, toughest Parmesan. Saline speckled, it is a well-aged wedge and as craggy as a stone aged spear. I bring down my grater, hanging on a hook in front of me. The sharp teeth will make fine shavings of even the hardiest of cheeses. And with each stroke, a soft, feather-like mound starts to build up on the board. Tiny ivory curls that will melt into the dish.

My herb grinder, a chrome mill with a pivoting handle that turns from a point at the top, awaits a rare use. I lift the lid and let a cupped palm of juniper berries fall into the tube. I return the lid and turn the handle, grinding the cogs, waiting for the purple, leathery flesh to drop out of the bottom. The sharp berry and peppery tanged flakes release a floral, fruits-of-the-forest perfume. I mix them with a small mound of sea salt to infuse. To eventually coat.

I place the sauté pan on the hob ring ready to heat, adding a nob of butter to the shallot pile and dribbling the smallest spoonful of oil to prevent it burning. The black button at the bottom of a row of knobs, marked with a lightening symbol, a nod to the hob´s modernity, clicks the burner to life. I wait. Wait for the butter´s sizzle. Wait to scatter some sea salt. Before turning it down. Down so low it sweats out the acerbity. Before everything else. When the allium dice turns glassy. Translucent. I will set it aside.  

Meat. Room temperature. A cut of venison loin found in the discount shelf of a local supermarket. I live in an exclusive area, evidently. The cut is enough for two, for two more, and I have a guest de-cubing the ice tray, uncorking bottles, shaking a drink. A gin-based martini. It should be whisky given the theme, but I don´t like it enough. It has a Hogarthian strength. Too strong for me at the moment while I handle knives, while I focus on the food. But a small sip judders me to attention. I pour some oil on the loin, rubbing it over and in, masseur-like. The meat, its dark flesh glistening, is ready to be seared. I take a frying pan from below the counter. Placing it on the already lit hob, I wait for it to become hot. So hot the flesh will sear and release in seconds. I hover my palm over the centre of the pan and feel the rising heat. I pick up the loin and place it in the pan. The hiss is so intense I could almost believe the deer has come back to life. It hasn´t. I nudge it to check the darkness of the sear underneath before lifting it up fully and turning it over with my fingers. Tongs? I am a professional. I lift it again, and once more. It is caramelised all over. In one swift action, tilting the frying pan, I roll the venison onto a baking sheet, open the door of the oven, place it on the shelf, and shut the door. The aroma of cooking, the only proof something had taken place.  

With a twist the timer starts, I return the shallots to the heat. They recommence their sizzle. I use a spatula to stir in the pasted garlic. One stir. Two stirs. Only two stirs before adding the next ingredient. I do not want the garlic to cook out fully. I love the heady perfume that it provides. A third stir into the shallot would surely ruin that. Surely?

Oats. Tweed flecked, nutty coloured grains that nod to Scotland´s favourite breakfast, and mine. They sit in an oversized Kilner jar in the corner of the dark grey, slate-grey worksurface. I flip open the looped wire catch. Lifting the lid, I delve inside with a measuring cup. An orange whole cup, part of a handy colour coded set. Thankfully, I am not colourblind. While the bottom is collapsible rubber, the rim is a hard silicone and catches on the way in. I am forewarned. The cup is piled high, but I am barely able to get it back through the opening. The rim, unyielding, threatens spillage. I tilt the jar towards me, moving cautiously. I do not want it to catch, to flick my grains all over the kitchen surface. With a patience that is unlike me, grinding teeth, grinding ridges, grinding through the glassy jaws, I pull the cup free. Scarcely a flecked grain lost. A mere mouse´s feast. The oats tumble into the frying pan. I quickly mix them in the butter. In the shallot. In the twice stirred, perfumed garlic. I hesitate only to consider pouring a glug of wine. I resist. It is not risotto after all.

I have stock, made earlier. The slow steeping of chicken bone and vegetables at an almost perceptible simmer resulting in a light golden infusion. I remove the container from the fridge, my small, undercounter machine with a letter-box freezer compartment that barely closes it is so packed. Taking the troublesome measuring cup, I pour the stock into its orange bowl. Then into the pan to saturate the woody grains, the onion flakes, the heady garlic. Once. Twice. I place the container of the savoury nectar nearby as I may need more.

Stirring constantly, I watch as the liquid starts to bubble. As the oats begin to puff. As it comes to the boil, I lower the heat and wait for the stock to absorb. And as the liquid disappears, so do the contents of my martini glass, and my cares, evaporating like whisps of steam. It is strong. But I have said that already.

The alarm goes off. A violent tringing, ear-splitting bell at odds with the smooth egg-shaped timer. It makes me jump. The meat is ready. In one hand I take my cloth, still partly hooked onto my apron strings, in readiness to remove the tray. With the other, I take a large pinch of the juniper infused salt and scatter it over a wooden board before opening the oven door. The meat out, I quickly shut the door again, to keep in the heat in case it needs to be returned. Holding the tray like an artist with a paint palate, I raise a digit and prod the meat. Not too spongy, not too resistant. I judge it done.

My tongs pinch one end of the loin, lifting it off the tray and with precision, carefully place it horizontally, on the edge of the salted surface. A cacophonous clash as I throw the tray into the ceramic sink before it slides into a soapy oblivion. Like the alarm, a noisy distraction. My fingers and thumbs hold each end of the loin as I roll the meat forward, then, like confetti, I scatter some more salt, not as much as it seems, and roll the meat back, ensuring full covering. I take a large strip of aluminium foil. Is an arm´s span enough? Gently pressing down, the tinny scrunching sound as I tuck it around the loin pricks the ears. The meat can relax. I, on the other hand, cannot.

The oats are drying out. Stirring vigorously, I add a mere drop of stock to loosen the mixture. I want a soft, velvety texture, that slowly spreads on the plate, not a wet gruel. I am not Oliver Twist. The grains revert to a pleasing consistency, and I look for the small bowl holding the shaved parmesan. I tilt the flurries into the grains. More stirring as it loses its creamy aroma. The scent changes, becoming sharper. But at the same time the melting cheese creates a more resistant feel to the spoon. I revert to desperate measures to ensure it stays loose. Crème Fraiche. I crouch down and delve into the small fridge finding an unopened tub, its tough foil and my eager hands refusing to work together in kitchen kinesis. Eventually, with the aid of the towel attached to my apron strings, I get enough purchase to pull the amour-like foil away and scoop out a dessert spoon of the soured cream, dropping into the cheesed oats. As the cream melts in the oats become pliant. But I cannot be complacent.  

I take a couple of twigs of rosemary, pulling off the perfumed needles and dropping them onto a small board. My knife speedily chopping, the cuttings bounce this way and that, until eventually becoming a more dusty garnish. I scatter most of them into the oats. Saving a couple of pinches for the finale.

I turn to the loin, removing the enveloping foil. A waft of herbaceous meaty heat rises up, teasing my senses. A momentary pause as I savour the sight and smell. Wiping the knife on my towel to remove any green crumbs, I start to slice the loin. Big half inch pieces that fall to the left as each cut is made. I remove a meat plate, one hundred years of Willow Patterned finery, one of my grandmother´s best, from the warming oven. Its age cracked glaze adding an authenticity to the evening´s meal.  I lift the pan with the grains and, starting at one end, pour the porridge onto the plate down the centre. Watching it slowly spread outwards. Watching it fill the oval plate. Leaving the end pieces, I take the slices of meat and, dabbing them on a paper towel quickly, I layer them left to right, like a set of playing cards, before using the final pinches of rosemary, sprinkled from height, and another small pinch of the purple spotted salt.

I walk the dish to the table. Presenting it as if it were a cushioned crown. Another glug of martini and I rip off the apron and take it back to the cooking area. The shortest of walks. The paper towel that caught the excess meaty liquid, I note, looks like something from the local hospital. I am not phased.

The fug of strong martinis, the warmth of the apartment and the insulating meaty, oaty grains leave me feeling comfortably exhausted on this wintry London night. Entertaining is hard work. I want to drift away.

Popping. The sound of air being released, bursting through the oats, revives me from my revery. I am where I always was. In the sun filled kitchen staring catatonically at my pan. Gone the rigidness of the flecks. Gone the woodiness of the cereal shavings. My oats are softened, rendered into a nebulous blanket of glutenous joy. Ironic as there isn´t a cloud in the sky. Turning off the gas, I tilt the pan, persuading the contents into a small bowl, filling it generously. Reaching up for some honey, I scoop out an overflowing, overindulgent serving with my spoon, I sense my grandmother´s head shake. A small splash of milk to finish. I take fuzzy steps out onto the terrace where I can sit and stare out towards the culprits of my allergic suffering.

I have the place to myself. Not a word. Not a sound. I have floated and dreamed through a cooking process that I was barely aware of thanks to the medicine, the allergies. And thanks to them too, I have had all the company I need. I know she wasn´t really there, although I wish she was. And while I was wafting through venison and stock scented oats, in reality, this breakfast of kings, well kings over the water, this simple fare of water, oats, honey and milk is all the comfort I need.

I have a pan. Filled with water. Run cold. As cold as is possible from the main´s source. It needs to be ice cold, but the freezer has returned nothing save for a cold sigh as the door opened. The ice tray empty. So, the pan keeps me company until I have finished my work. It is placed beside me. Close.  

There is a pile of leaves. A stub of root. Some oddments, unusable parts of a vegetable, that was once almost as flame shaped as Lady Liberty´s torch. The tough, ridged, white bulb tapering to a green tip. A fine frond. But I have torn all these away and am left with the hollow fingers that, once shredded, will make this dish. The pile seems endless, wasteful. However, I am going to add some parts to beef up a ready bought bouillon. I know. I cut the tubed pieces in half lengthways, then in half again. It makes my cutting easier. And I pause to examine the gentle furriness inside the hollow that seems at odds with the bitter flavour that the flesh produces. I resume my work.    

Diehards will use a taglia. A square wired appliance that makes multiple slices in one swift action. But this is my first time. And my knife, sharpened in another place, wrapped in cloth and travelled well, is up to the task. The shreds, thin, but not enough to lose any crunch, any bite, will go into my pan. It is slowly filling up. Teased senses. A contrasting feeling, like sea grass swirling and waving, water and fibres, as my fingers lightly push the strands under the surface. The tubular digits are getting smaller. They make more difficult work closer to the core, away from the root. I cut them once, maybe twice. Their more natural shape different from the knife sliced, clean cut, strands. Softer. More pliant. They have yet to be exposed to natures vagaries. They won´t be. All goes into the pot.

From the pile, I finally select a few other cuttings for a stock. More morsels for a broth. Then take a large sheet of paper and roll the rest, the discardeds, the unusables, into a package to become organic waste.

I press down the vegetable strips again. Pushing them under the water. Making sure that nothing is unnecessarily exposed. Then, as I have no ice, take the water filled, shred filled, pot and place it into the mouth of the freezer. Not perfect. No. But it might work. A slightly surreal icy mist in the light filled kitchen floats out of the door as I slam it shut. It will stay closed away in there chilling the water, chilling the salad, for a couple of hours when I will move on to the next part.

Time, in this sunny Italian resort, has passed with a dreamy slowness. Not too much time, but hopefully, enough to allow the chilling water to magically curl the crisp chicory. I am making a salad long associated with Roman cuisine. A tangle of textures. A puckering clash of contrasting flavours. Bitter. Sour. Salty. Tempered with the lightest touch of sweet. But you will see.

I have garlic. Some cloves. I will refrain from saying how many perfumed pieces I am using. But. I. Like. Garlic. I lift off the purple parchment that clings tightly to the ivory flesh. A fingernail, which I normally do not have, digs into that just jutting part at the root. The paper skins float down towards the worksurface, and I am left with plump cloves. I find my grater. Cloth wrapped in my knife roll, along with other well-travelled kitchen utensils. And the corkscrew. Obviously. The fine blades turn clove to paste quickly leaving an aroma that permeates this part of the kitchen. Its oils stick to my fingers and gift me wonderfully scented tips. I tap the top of the grater onto the far edge of a large magenta salad bowl, a bright bowl, and watch the garlic drop in.    

In a nearby store, a short walk from the kitchen activity, not far from the sound of lapping waves, I have found a large jar of anchovies. Dark, salty slivers swimming in a light olive oil. Like me, these tangy fillets have travelled to be in this kitchen. Albania. Who knew? I have come from the other direction, so, we meet on centre ground as I prepare this dish. I delve my fingers into the sea scented oil, pulling out a couple of fillets. More. I dive in again. More. I pull out a final few. Why not? A brine and salted slap from my salad will challenge the palate, pucker the cheeks and leave the diner feeling content. Well, hopefully. The fish is leeching its oil. I unfurl a sheet of kitchen roll. Absorbent paper that will stop my chopping board becoming a slick rink. I bring down the blade of the knife, roughly chopping the piscine pile. Using the side, I flip everything over and chop again. The portions are getting smaller, but I want a paste. I touch the tip of the knife with one finger and paddle the sharp blade over the pieces. Flattening the fish, shredding the flesh until it becomes almost transparent. Then I repeat the process to ensure it really is a paste. Some people use a shop bought tube. Where is the satisfaction? The purée joins the garlic. The heady nasal sting of fresh garlic merging with the more subdued fish and brine. But. There. Is. More.

Vinegar. That piquant wine infused with acetobacteraceae? You may ask. Indeed. I have white where a purist may say red. Worse. I have white balsamic vinegar. My sins keep accruing. I unscrew the cap. The plastic insert that limits the flow long gone, I eye-ball a measure I think will be about right. Two glugs into the salad bowl to mix with the fish and garlic. Two good glugs. In a panic I re-lid the bottle worried I may be tempted to pour in a bit more where I may have already poured in too much.

Whack! The garlic on the tongue. Whack! The anchovy on the palate. Whack! The vinegar on the inside cheeks where the merest thought of the acid moistens the mouth. Whack. Whack. Whack. I need to mellow this pugnacious condiment with something more subtle. More gentle. Kind. I flick off the cork of a just opened bottle of chilled Trebbiano. Trebbiano, a grape that I have always seen as a filler. A temperer. A cooking wine. My time in France infused me with these little prejudices, their variety deemed worthy only to make Armagnac. Strangely, it is the most widely grown grape of this area, and I should improve my opinion. One quick flick of the wrist as the splash goes in. No more. I have already caused ructions with this version of my dish. I may want a spikey sauce, but I also need to taste the transgression. The subtle transgression.

Olive oil. As grass green as just mined amber. The green sort. Flavours of capsicum and herbs that temper the salty sea, the tart and tainted vine. Flavours that muffle the raw noise of the allium´s roar. I pick up a small whisk I have found in a drawer nearby. Normally too small for my daily needs, it seems to fit well in the bowl, as I do, here in this kitchen. I pour the oil liberally into the bowl, holding the bottle high, whisking the contents as I drizzle. Watching the green stream fleck gold in the sunlight. Watching the whisk fuse the elements of this dressing. Of this salad.

I remove the pot from the freezer. The chicory has barely curled. I sigh. From failure comes learning. Iced water stuns the slivers into curling. Shocks them to shape then holds them for enough time that the fibres will set. Cold or cooled water will not. Fortunately, it only took one attempt to learn this. I. Am. No. Edison.

I find a colander in the cupboard. A bright red colander. Colour in this apartment is a kaleidoscopic contrast to the more sedate hues of my salad. But the flavours will dazzle the palate and outshine any plastic pot or vivid wall paint. I lift the pot and release the slightly bent, slightly curled chicory into the day-glow drainer. Watching the water drain away. Shaking slightly, before placing the succory slivers on a linen towel. I do not want any liquid to water down my dressing. I spread the fibrous strands out, so each is touched, patted, pampered by the cloth. Lifting the towel by the corners and releasing two ends they tumble into the salad bowl. Using my hand, ensuring each puntarella piece is coated with the piquant sauce, I start to stir. Mix. Massage. My fingers coated. Lickable. I do not. With my clean hand I reach for two plates that are on the table nearby. Then lifting up one handful at a time, using the strands to brush, to mop up, the sauce, I place the coated salad centred on each plate. Each orange plate. This kitchen is bright. A fork for eating up. Bread for soaking up. Was Italian bread made for anything else?

The swell of chattering voices rising up from the piazza below marks the time to eat. Each one vying to dominate the conversation through laughter and cajoling. Here, in the kitchen, away from the balcony, here, on the plate, ingredients scuffle in a friendly fight to dominate the palate. The kiss, smack, crunch of this dressing, this salad, is a glorious encounter of flavours ebbing and flowing with each mouthful like the endless lapping of the nearby waves.   

I return home. To my kitchen. A frothy cappuccino poured into a steaming mug of coffee, one that I can wrap my chilled fingers around, would do me well. But I don´t take milk in my coffee. Even so, the caffeinated drink still heats my hands and revives me. A sip and then I put it down, reluctant to let go.

Icing sugar, the outer design of the paper bag giving its age away, comes down from a shelf in the kitchen. The slightest grip puffs powder through the creased lips. I open up the folded, pleated mouth and flurry out the contents into a box. Scrunching the opening back up, the once neat factory folds long disappeared, and sliding the bag into a place to be forgotten until next time. I move the box to another part of the worksurface. A dust cloud leaves ghostly traces where it has been.  

Near the hob, the hub of oncoming activity, I open a cupboard door and reach up for the bag of cornflour. The mere mention makes me shudder. I measure an equal amount of the flour into the box of sugar. The dry, calcific squeak is barely tempered when I mix it into the icing sugar. I place a lid on the top of the box and shake it. The bag, a tram line type seal that once opened is nigh on impossible to close, I struggle with for a minute or so before placing it to one side. It will be needed again soon.

A tin, greyer than the darker mountain clouds. The metallic flecks of non-stick paintwork glinting in the sunlight. But what I am making is going to stick. I ease it out from the bottom of a pile of baking sheets, cake tins and roasters that stand precariously by the back wall of the kitchen awaiting the merest breeze or scuff to tumble loudly to the floor. A tin timpani.    

I pull out a sheet of parchment. Square cut. Silicon. Oven proof. The utensil drawer hides the scissors. Orange handled they may be, but in the overcrowded space I cannot find them. A minute passes. I edge closer to a temptation: the pull-out-the-drawer-and-scatter-it-all-on-the-floor temptation. But then I find them. Eventually. I hold the paper and cut at each corner, towards the centre, guessing the size of the tin´s base. It is not important to be accurate. It is important not to be slapdash. Haphazard. Sloppy. The sheet now has a square base to match the tin´s, with flopping rhomboid wings.

Sunflower. The bottle of neutral oil. A drizzle, the smallest amount poured in the tin. My pastry brush, hardened by time, softened by boiled water, pushes the oil into the corners. Up the sides. All over. Carefully, I ease the square cut part of parchment into the base of the greased tin. The wings are pressed to the sides, edges flipped over. I repeat the oiling process on the sheet. Up. Down. Across. Then, moving so swiftly it could defy the eyes, I scoop some cornflour sugar mix with a metal spoon out of the box and toss it onto the paper. I lift the tin, shaking the flour from one end to another, from one side to the next, careful not to allow it near me. My flesh is already goosebumped at the thought. I tap what has not held against the oiled sheet out and back into the box.  The tin is dusted. It is ready.

My pan, large, aluminium, generous in proportions is sat firmly on a hob ring. Centred. Aligned. I lift a thermometer hanging on a hook in front of me. A sugar thermometer. The metal frame has a clasp to clip it to the pan´s side. Its red line ready to mark the progress of the heated ingredients. I reach up for the granulated sugar. More crystalline and coarser than the dusty icing sugar. More effective for sugar solutions. I measure an amount that would worry most dental practitioners. It sparkles as it tumbles into the pan. A large white pile that brightens the cold grey steel.

A boiled kettle can only stay warm for so long. I measure the contents into a jug, it is still hot enough for my needs. I quickly stick my forefinger into the bottle of oil Dutch dyke style, the fronds inside the neck tickling my fingertip. I wipe a measuring spoon around the inside with the dominant digit. This will prevent it from sticking. It? Glucose syrup it. That is what. That “it” is the most important ingredient of all. It will keep the sugar pliant. Prevent brittleness. I hold the spoon in my left hand and squeeze the tube of syrup with all my might. Like glue, it moves at a glacial pace. My grip holds long enough to fill the spoon, then overfill it to the point of spilling it. I pour the hot water over the spoon, over the pan, the glucose melting down, releasing itself from the spoon, thanks to the oil and merging with the sugar below.

My zester, that flurrisome file, that implement flaying fruit skin like martyr´s flesh, busily showers orange onto a small board. It will be used presently but I must juice the denuded citrus. A jug. A reamer. Four orange halves. Light work. Light, but sticky work. I open the sweet cupboard door. Yes, I have sweet-savoury arrangements. The sweet cupboard hides a thin packet. So thin, I keep it close to the door to find more easily. Gelatine. Delicate transparent leaves that need to be soaked for a short time. I find a small gratin dish, white, bland, and evenly space several sheets in it. The jug of juice is rid of its contents, a splash of water adding to the measurement that is needed for my recipe.

I do weights at the gym. Did I mention that? Under a shelf I find a Harley Davidson of a machine. My food processor. A large, weighty but satisfyingly ergonomic engine. Its enamelled paintwork a light sage, a colour that matched perfectly with my last kitchen. I do not really care that much, but it is important. Right?  I tuck my hand under the mechanical arm. With a couple of preparational puffs, I heave the monster up and onto the counter nearest some electrical points. I pivot the green arm with the flick of a catch, twist on the bulbous head of a whisk attachment and lock a chrome bowl to the base, lowering the whisk´s head into its centre. And prepare myself.

In the fridge door there is a bottle of pasteurised egg whites. Long ago, I gave up the idea of separating eggs by the dozen. No more the yolks. No more the shells. No. more. I pour an albuminous measurement into the bowl attached to the machine and allow myself a pause.

A whoosh-hiss of a match, the cough of the hob under the sugar pan and it is time to go.

Patience and timing work well as a team. I am not part of that team. However, there is a fascination that comes from watching a thermometer rise to the different levels of heat. Up. Thread. Up. Soft ball. Up. Hard ball. Up further, soft and hard crack. It is something enjoyably suspenseful. I am hypnotised by the change in the shape of the bubbles as they reach the different boiling stages. It´s true. Watch it yourself.

The sugar becomes more opaque as it starts to disappear into the slowly swirling water. I help the crystals break down by agitating them with the handle of a wooden spoon. Small swirls. Nothing more. The sugar can burn on the sides if it is stirred too much spoiling the flavour. And I am wary. I watch the solution become clear before turning my attention to the egg whites and the gelatine sheets. A prod here and there to make sure the leaves have become jelly.

I see the red line hitting that high. Reaching that point. That point where the boiling sugar, originally warming at a painstakingly slow pace, rapidly surges, forcing me into action like a juggler suddenly being thrown an extra ball. I flip the switch to start the whisking of the whites. They need just enough time to over whisk. To become very stiff peaks. I leave the machine and count down, or up, the thermometer´s marks. The background whirring forcing me to concentrate. I grab a medium whisk. My most used. My most beloved. The reading reaches the right temperature. I turn off the hob, unclip the thermometer and put it in hot water. Then lift the gratin dish with the gelatined orange. Quickly plunging the contents into the pan. Whisking furiously. Liquid frothing angrily. Changing colour. The shock coolness of the gratin dish´s contents settle the bubbling cauldron of sugar. The angry noises replaced by the all-enveloping aroma of oranges and candy.

The rhythmic pace of the food processor´s motor creates a beat for the next part. While the whites stiffen even more than should be allowed, the bulbous whisk a blur in the bowl, I slowly drizzle the orange perfumed sugar from the pan over the egg. Slowly. Very slowly. Too quickly and it will not work. The volume increases as the sugar is added. Puffing up. Clouds before a summer storm. As the last drops of scented sweetness drip into the bowl the whites have transformed from airy froth to glossy mousse. I pick up the small board with the zest. Flicking the switch, I stop the process for the merest moment to scatter the oily orange into the bowl. Then, flicking the switch back, to resume the beating with vigour. Sound is a giveaway. Wetness a quicker, higher pitched pulse. I am waiting for that deeper base sound. A resonant, slow, mud-bubbling sound. One that tells me the gelatine, the eggs and the scented liquid have truly combined. That the sugar has cooled. I place my hands around the base of the bowl to double check. Just warm. Just right.

I drag the paper lined tin along the worksurface to a place where I can pour easily. Unlocking the bowl from the base of the machine, I lift it with my left hand. My right hand holds a spatula. The pouring begins. It falls. It spreads. Like lava, though lava flows do not look as pretty. The spatula scrapes the most reluctant elements. Not that they are needed as the tin is near to overflowing.

Bang.

Bang.

Bang.

I lift the tin up then slam it down. I am not angry. Not at all. I must rid the mousse of air. It must be smooth. Dense.

Bang.

Bang.

The sound is enough to make the dog run to a safe place under the covers of the bed. I will deal with him later. I reach up to a jar of cocktail sticks on a nearby shelf, selecting out just one. One tiny wooden spear. The spiked end will pierce any remaining bubbles that have risen to the surface from the clattering, ear-shattering slamming. I pick up the tin and walk to the far end of the building. The coolest, darkest part. It will stay there for a couple of hours while I clear up. I will not lick the spoon. I will not lick the spoon.

I still have a few remnants of sugary delight stuck to my whiskers as I bring the tin back to the kitchen. I lay out a silicon mat with designs and measurements that will help me cut and slice with accuracy. I place the tin on top. A dungeon master shows his victim the tools of his trade before he begins work. For me, the torture begins. Cornflour. But we must all go through hell to taste a bit of heaven. Cornflour. Just the mention of it and I will sing like a canary. Cornflour. I pull the paper wings of the parchment, easing out my treat from the tin. I gently ease the sides down. Peeling carefully. The sugary delight reluctant to let go. It is as sticky as putty. I unclip the box with the cornflour sugar mix and sprinkle some over the surface and down the recently exposed sides. My palm spreads it around. Rubs it all over. Flipping over the orange sugar mousse, I gently peel the remaining parchment away and begin again with the powdery solution. Inside I am singing Mozart´s Der Hoelle Rache Aria. Pitch perfect.  I turn and twist the flavoured foam until it is flush with the marked mat.    

I retrieve my pastry knife. It is the size of a scimitar, large, serrated curves along the blade. I hold it high, aiming it at the centre of my square sweet, measuring it against the mat´s own ruled marks. The knife cuts down and through. Sticky. Each half reluctant to separate. I slice again. Twice on one half. Each cut more difficult than the last so adhesive it has become. I shake more cornflour over the width of each long piece. And, wiping the knife, begin again with the other half. The more cornflour, the less stickiness. In theory. But the theory is holding. I shake more. Then position the long slices width ways. I decide to eye-ball the size of each piece I will cut. My aim is to get six cubes from each length. Thirty-six squares in all. Thirty-two to be bagged. Each one to be tossed in the sugar flour powder. Each one shaken in the palm of my hand, my fingers a wide clasp to roll the square around, to rid it of any excess. I place them side-by-side, evenly spaced, on a wire rack to leave overnight. To dry. I carry the rack to that dark, cool room at the other end of the house. My jaw aches from grimacing. But. It. Is. Done.

It is another glorious day. And although the low clouds still top the highest peak of the mountain. And that glare will burn that nebulous cover again. The morning sun dazzles the kitchen. I have cleaned, walked, sipped and slurped my way through the breakfast routine. The dog is happily slumbering after his excesses. No noises this time. So, I am left to wander through the house, to the rack holding the orange sugar-sweet cubes. I take them back to the kitchen. I gently feel the sweets to make sure the powder has helped dry them out enough to bag. A brittle skin. A crustiness has formed overnight. This is good. Firm edges, spongey centres. Four bags. Four strands of chequered ribbon. Four gifts. With four corner pieces left over.

I take a corner piece to test. I have to. No, really. I pause. My mousse, this marshmallow, so perfumed on the palate, so orange, so creamy, melts on my tongue. It is like eating those mountain clouds.

How can you bag a piece of heaven?

I leap like a gazelle towards the kitchen. Fuelled neither by energy nor excitement, but by the cold, hard tiles chilling my bare feet. I turn on the oven and turn. A pot of tea waits for me on the work surface beside the kettle. Beside the sink. I take a strainer and pour the steaming brew into a mug. Steaming all the more because the sun has yet to work its thermal magic on these walls. The oven murmurs mechanically. It will come to heat in no time. It may also heat the room, but I do not intend to wait that long. Preparation is key. As I run through the house in one direction to find hot water, then the other to find the clothes I have laid out, a naked rush not even the dog deserves to witness. There is no time for modesty. As I rush, race, and ready myself, I am making a list of the things I must do. Preparation is indeed key, but time is also against me.

Refreshed. Cleaned. Ready. I return to the kitchen.

In a bag behind the door. Yes, I am still unpacking from my move. I pull out two spring-form cake tins. Their need for cleaning is as great as my need for speed. Hot water flows out of the faucet. With greater force than from the shower. I am not bitter. Liquid soap, its unnatural luridness, in contrast to the sun´s natural glow, foams water in the chrome sink. A quick dip of the tins. A quick wipe. Grime from months of idling washed away in no time. A quick dry.

I find a roll of parchment from above the fridge. I fold the paper in half, lengthways, then half again. The long strip is then folded in a similar manner. Halved once, then once more. Using scissors, I hold up the base of one of the tins. I cut a circle an inch away from the edge. I have made a selection of paper discs for my baking needs. I place a disc on each base and clip it into place, pulling the catch tight. The remaining parchment rests on the work surface. A whole piece of holed paper, the holes framed by the folds. I scrunch the punctured sheet into a ball. It will help start the wood burner at a later stage.  The small rounds I collect and make a pile, putting them away safely in a place that I am guaranteed to forget about by the time my work is done.

I find a brush. A pastry brush that threatens baldness it has been so overworked. Oil. Light and flavourless. Vegetal. I push the brush´s head into the opening of the bottle and tilt it. Just enough to wet the tip. Just enough to grease the sides of the cake tins. Just enough.

Flour. Some plain white flour. The packet is so depleted I must search for another packet. The cupboard merely offers me a spelt alternative. Its beige blandness, its taupe tinge has me grimacing slightly. But I must take a punt. A flurry of floating fawn fills a small bowl. A flip. A pinch. I finger some salt from a wood-lidded pot behind the hob, returning the lid with a snap.

From another cupboard I retrieve the most important of ingredients for this surprise. I will add just a little. Joining the salt. Joining the flour. I adjust the measurement. Too much will taint the flavour. Baking powder. The invention of a Victorian chemist, Mr Bird, of powdered custard fame. He changed the British ritual of Afternoon Tea. Transforming a sweet bite into a luxurious morsel. It will also transform this dulcet delicacy.

Behind me stands the fridge. From the door I remove a pack of butter. It is solid. As hard as rock. From above me, I lower a kilo bag of sugar from a cupboard. Plain, white, granulated. Bland. Its sole character, its sweetness. But in unison with the other ingredients, it will become something magical. I pour out a measure into another small bowl.

I cut the butter into small pieces with a bone handled knife. Even in small bits it is too tough. The wooden spoon, a relic from several kitchens past, cannot make headway into the creamy cubes. The frozen fatty bits will not give in this cold room. Patience, a strong point at many times, fails me.

I put the bowl with the wooden spoon into the warming oven in the hope that it will soften enough, but before it becomes liquid. Five seconds. I peel a mandarin. I have not eaten breakfast yet. Fifteen seconds. I have a segment filled mouth, gaping with citrus slices, I have to hurry. I reach out for a fully fleshed lemon that is in a basket under the kitchen window. I am not going to eat it. My mouth puckers at the idea. I will need the zest to add flavour to my surprise. Thirty seconds. I remove the bowl from the oven. The handle of the wooden spoon has warmed, perceptibly so. Though not too warm to harm. The butter has softened and the creaming, or the attempt to cream, re-commences with earnest.

I start to flatten the small squares into a paste. The bowl of sugar goes in. It showers white rain over the buttery smudge. The sharp crystals helping it render down further as I beat. Lightening the texture. The colour. My arm aching to the squelch-ching rhythm of spoon hitting butter hitting glass. Squelch. Ching. Beating; one direction, then another. I am wearing thin much of my morning enthusiasm. I pause and take a tentative sip of tea to perk me up. It is cooled enough. I take a glug. Its tannic tartness with a bergamot twist is rewarded with a sigh.

Time, though, is as precious as the revitalising infusion. I return to my mission. Vanilla. I have vanilla paste. It has a wonderful blanketing perfume. An all-enveloping, comforting aroma. A rich and creamy flavour. An ingredient that were it an item of furniture would surely be the feather bed. There. Is. Nothing. Else. Like. It. And so, I drop a carefully measured amount into the bowl. Maybe not so carefully.   

Opening the utensil drawer to the left of me, I retrieve a medium whisk. Sturdy enough to make lighter work of the next round of beating. I will not chance the wooden spoon, nor my arm. I return to the fridge. I find an egg. The egg. It is the last one. I shake my head. No room for errors. No mistakes. A tap. A crack and the egg drops into the buttery paste. The whisk makes easy headway. Aerating it. Smoothing it. My arm beats faster. It is not so worn down as it was by the creaming. The batter, as that is what it has become, looks slightly curdled. I am not worried. A little of the flour lightly stirred in does the trick. I rest a second. But a second is all I allow myself.

I bring the tins towards me, scattering the remainder of the dry ingredients into the bowl. I whisk with all the energy I have in me. The mixture gains body. It is a muscular paste. I turn, taking the bowl with me, I add a splash of cold water. This helps the crumb. The texture. I fold that in and return to the tins. Eyeballing the amount, I fill each one with the buttery, battery mixture. I use a small spoon to even out the differences. Then, as quick as a magician duping the audience, the tins disappear, middle shelf, into the oven. Hey presto! Slamming the door shut I clock the time.

My washing up days stopped in a basement kitchen in London many years ago. It is true. It was the first time I was addressed as chef and everything I used was whisked away. Gone now the deference. Absolutely. Gone. Luckily, I have not forgotten how. The tins may languish in the oven, but the kitchen remains active. The washing, cleaning, drying, all done in no time. I check the clock. I finish my tea. I cream my hands. I may not have forgotten how to wash up, but my hands have.

Enough time has lapsed. The alarm in my head rings an urgent clanging peal. I tentatively peer through the oven window. They look done. They smell done. I open the door and with a cloth in my hand, lift one tin out, placing it on a wooden board. I shut the door quickly after me. The butter, vanilla, sugar waft that follows the door´s draft is as alluring to the cook as sirens to sailors. Paralysing the senses. The cake, rich and golden in colour, has domed slightly. There is a small crack in the centre, hinting at the palest yellow crumb underneath. It is nothing to worry about. I touch the surface. The crust has a sandy feel to the fingertips. The top, a springy resistence. I lean in and put my ear near the surface, careful not to singe the lobe. Trust me, it is a method. The crackling sound teases the eardrum. I place the tin on a rack to start the cooling process. I take out the other one, double checking the feel and sound, and place it next to the first tin. Switching off the oven, I move the tins to another part of the house. An unheated, colder part of the house. I return to the kitchen and take stock.

The butter, the remainder of the pack, I remove from its wrapping. The idealised image of happy cows in a glorious bucolic scene I scrunch and throw with the holed baking parchment onto the hearth ready to burn. A little fat might help fuel the fire later. I use a spoon and start the creaming process again. It has softened more. Even in this cool kitchen. I put the bowl aside for a minute while I gather the other ingredients.

I take my grater. It is a plane. A modern, long and narrow, razor-toothed tool. The lemon I found earlier, I hold it firm as the grater glides along its surface, flurrying the yellow skin as if it were confetti. It drops onto the board beneath. I gather it up with a knife and toss it into the bowl with the smoothed butter.

I have icing sugar. Confectioner´s sugar. The packaging, squeezed, emits a puffball mushroom cloud. This cloud, though, is white and hangs in the air for longer than I have time to watch and wait. With a battered metal spoon, the dents in its curves demonstrating an age that goes beyond me, I lift out a mound of sugar, tilting it into the bowl. The butter has all but disappeared underneath. Carefully, I start the merging process. Carefully. I do not want the sugary cloud to dust the surface around me. Gently. Stroking with the back of the spoon. Loosening it further. I take a knife from the block, sharp edged and unnecessarily large and slice the denuded lemon in half. I squeeze a few drops into the sugar. The lemon´s citrus scent rising through an all-consuming creamy, sugar smell. Refreshing. The butter cream is almost done. A few more strokes, beats, stirs, and it is ready.

Quickly stepping out of the kitchen I race towards the recesses of the house. The tins are cold and the surface of the cakes tepid. Quick work. But the house in this part has barely lifted the mercury beyond night time temperatures. Good for me. Bad for any guests.

A table knife, Sheffield made, bone handled and preciously antique. But I use it, nonetheless. Holding the tin in one hand and sliding the blunt blade down the inside of the tin. I pull it around the cake´s edge. Gripping firmly. Loosening the sponge from the metal. I repeat the process. Lift. Hold. Pull. Release. I turn the cakes upside down over the rack, unclipping the clasp. Each one holds on firmly to the paper and metal base. The blade helps prise them off.

My breadknife, I weald over the two newly released halves. I hold the first half on its side. Cutting downwards I remove the curved dome that had risen during the baking. It is still warm. Underneath. Where the knife has cut, small crumbs are held together in suspension by sheer magic, surrounded by perfumed air. The palest gold colour. I may be a little proud of my work. I take the other half and do the same, ensuring that the knife has cut down straight. That I have a flat surface. Each cut side will become the inside of the sandwiched halves. The remnants I defiantly stuff into my mouth. I check to see I have not been observed. It is merely a reflex. I am still alone. For the moment.

Jam. Apricot jam. It has a delicate flavour that will not overpower the vanilla. Dull the lemon. It will complement them. I pull out a teaspoon from the cutlery drawer and take a large scoop of the glistening conserve, dropping it in the centre of the cut sponge. Using the back, I gently push, spread the apricot jam outwards ensuring the side is fully glistening with jellied sweetness. I am not ungenerous.

From the creaming bowl, I use the table knife to spread some lemon-buttery joy over the other cut half. Although the heated heart of my cake has yet to cool thoroughly, it helps soften the butter further. Gently, with a light paddling action, I ease out the sweet mixture. Knowing the cake will crumble at the slightest unwarranted pressure. Risking leech from the warmth. But time is not my dearest friend. I press both coated, cut sides together. Turning the cake upright placing it on a small plate.

The table knife, almost a palate knife in its shape, perfect for finishing this surprise, is dipped into the butter cream mix again. This time I use the remaining mix to coat the top of the cake. Generously thick. There is still plenty. A creamy swirl speckled with the smallest of yellow flecks. The blade´s flat side creating waves and ridges. I turn the plate around and check the coating is even.

My time is up. The chain on the gate is rattling. I will have company, birthday company, in a minute. No more than that. I rush to a drawer, narrow, unopened for most of the year. It holds a bag with everything anyone would need to decorate cakes. My hand rummages wildly to find the crowning glory. I lift the bag in the air to look through the plastic skin. I squeeze it. Tick. Tock. At the bottom I discover what I need. A two-coloured, barley twist candle attached to a small yellow holder. Petal like tips spreading outwards around the candle´s base. Quickly, I spear it into the centre of the cake then reach for the match box beside the hob. Tick. Tock. The footsteps are accompanied by the patter of paws on the terrace. It. Is. Time. With the deftness of a chain smoker, I strike a match and put its phosphorous flame to the wick. If there was an alarm, it would ring: time´s up. It. Is. Lit.

Happy birthday…to you.      

A dust like cloud. Icing. The slow motion of January weather. And now, the arrival of the Three Kings seems as eternally slow as their Biblical journey. Epiphany. I have been gifted time, however. I must prepare. 

Caspar

I step back inside and close the kitchen door. I have citrus fruits. Gnarled, dimpled and pithy. Orange, lemon and pomelo. The skin thick, the flesh juicy. They must be separated. I get my knife. Cutting into the first, the lemon, I cut it in half lengthways, then half again. Liquid acid leaks onto the board, my mouth leaks at the citric thought. Holding the end of the skin with the tips of my fingers I tilt my blade and ease the cellular, grainy flesh away from the pith, working away from me. The quarters I slice again, into strips. I put them aside and work on the other quarters. The cuttings I put into a colander. The pomelo is next. It is bigger. I cut in half, in half again, then two more slices. A lot more easing, persuading, a lot more knife work. The strips join the lemon peel. My orange is last. Its sweet juice does not make me salivate in the same way. Though a glass of freshly squeezed juice appeals to the senses. I perform my knife skills with a perfunctoriness bordering on nonchalance. The peel is done. The flesh, I have in a bowl ready for a breakfast fruit salad tomorrow. A not-perfect fruit salad but an enjoyable shot of vitamins, nonetheless. 

A large pan has been filled with water, heated. A rolling boil, volcanic in its activity, makes it rattle on the hob. I fill the kettle on the other side of the kitchen, turning it on. Peeking out of the window, I check for any change in weather. There. Is. None. My eyes roll. I toss the contents of the colander, the peel, into the tumbling water and turn the heat down. A gentle simmer is all that is needed. Enough to soften the leathery strips. But softening is not enough.

Araignée du matin, chagrin… But I regret nothing, it is the wrong kind of spider. Catching the pithy pieces in the spider, a thoroughly phobic name for the webbed tool, I return them to the colander and change the water. The kettle´s searing contents are poured into the pan, the fruity strips returned, and the simmering begins again. The kettle is restarted, the spider poised again. The water rechanged, boiled, changed once more. The sour skin-tainted liquid is discarded at each stage. Shedding a bitter year for a sweeter, new one, maybe. That´s irony for you. The slices slowly become glassy. Translucent.

I measure out equal amounts of sugar and water, placing them in the pot. It. Is. Sweet. Very sweet. The hob´s grumbling bass brings blue flamed heat. I cannot add the strips until the sugar crystals have disappeared. I use the handle of a wooden spoon to make small eddies in the bottom of the pan. The subtlest of moves to help the sugar dissolve without leaving burnt tears on the side. Something that could ruin the flavour. In go the skins. I raise the temperature and boil for a short time before turning off the heat, leaving the unctuous concoction to slowly cool. I cover the top with a clean linen towel to prevent moths, flies, nature itself from conjoining with my silky syrup. I walk away. 

This act, this repetitive simmering, covering, and setting aside. The act of doing and walking away. I perform three more times. A whole twelve hours between each heating and cooling. A whole day, a whole night, where a few minutes of pure concentration, mine and the sugar, takes precedence over everything else. The occasional adding of a tablespoon or two of water to stop it from becoming a boiled sweet. A fruity lozenge. The occasional gentle stirring with the handle of my wooden spoon. But in those few focused minutes I barely noticed the winds howling louder than the furies as they hurl down the mountains and through the garden; the trees bending almost double. I barely notice the all-enveloping clouds are missing, pushed seawards and outwards, replaced by a flawless blue sky and a pure icy cold. Just barely. Outdoor activities have resumed for the previously weather reluctant dog. My face is flushed from either the kitchen´s heat or fearsome cold. Regardless, it is flushed. And everything is normal again.

Golden light infuses the morning kitchen. My tea steeps in a small yellow pot, and I remove the cloth from over the pan. Lifting out the strips with my trusty spider and placing them to one side. I pour out the syrup into a storage jar to save for later. The peel, now sugar saturated, are carefully spread out over a rack, over a tray, to dry out. The tray lifted beyond temptation levels, up to a shelf that I also have difficulty reaching. High. A day or two should suffice. And again, I wait.

Balthazar

Flour flurries from a sieve, falling onto a folded chute. A sheet of parchment shaped into a dart. Creased, then uncreased. Practically a paper plane. But not quite. The nose, the tip, will be used to channel a farinaceous freefall accurately. But wait. You. Will. See.

Carefully measured water fills the wide pan. Butter. Holding a block in my hand and a small knife in the other, I cut some butter, pale and unsalted. Cube it. Dice it. Chunk it. Each piece dropped into the water.  I strike a match against the dotted strip on the side of the small box. Hissing to life, I lower it to the hob and let the flame sparkle. Blue, light blue, a small crown of burning butane. I move the pan sideways onto the heat and start the next stage.

I have a plate. It is wide and patternless, and as dull as it is useful. Taken from the dresser in the hallway, it is cool. Cool enough. I have a wooden spoon. Old, age stained, and for some reason with an ancient char mark on the back. The equipment, that is all there is, is ready.

The water in the pan is starting to come to a boil. The butter has melted leaving a pale-yellow slick on the surface. The smaller simmering bubbles become a more energetic rolling boil as I deftly take the chute and slide in the flour. I turn the gas off, remove the pan, and with the wooden spoon I beat. An arm aching beat. The flour, the butter, the water. Three elements reluctant at first to combine take the vigorous beating, becoming a paste. Pulling away from the sides of the pan, it is ready to pour. I spread out the tacky mixture onto the plain plate to cool.

Cooking is a form of choreographed movement. I step back from the hob, turning the oven on, step towards the fridge, collect some eggs, and then step back again. Ballet? I think not.

I crack the eggs into a jug and beat them to a light daffodil froth. More parchment is torn from the roll to line a baking sheet. I take a pinch of the panade, the cooling floury mix, and dab a sticky finger at each of the four corners to ensure the sheet adheres, remains in place, during the cooking process. The pinch gives me the chance to gauge the temperature doughy base. It has cooled enough.

I return the panade to the pan. In my right hand I take the same burnt back, blunted old wooden spoon ready to beat again. The pan handle awaits my left. A solitary breath, deep and calming, I tip in some of the beaten egg I proceed to stir, to mix, to emulsify. From a curdled mess, a momentary thought that it will never absorb, the momentum turns it into a glossy paste. But. It. Is. Not. Enough. More egg goes in, and the process starts again. More curdling. More beating. More smoothing. I have emptied the contents of the jug. I have transformed it to silken dough. It holds onto the underside of the spoon as I hang it over the pan. I count to five. It releases itself, dropping on cue. It is done.

I take a measuring spoon, lightly oiling it with my forefinger. A digital tool from a pre-digital age. Scooping out a rounded portion of the mixture, I drop it onto the lined baking tray. I delve in again. Each time lifting out a similar sized ball to the last one. Each time imagining each ball has a number, like a lottery, a tombola, as if there is a prize at the end. There is. But. You. Will. Have. To. Wait. The parchment is filled with uniform shaped dough, evenly spaced. A glass sits at the side of my workspace filled with water. My forefinger, still useful, dips through the surface then dabs the top of the balls to smooth out any lumps, spikes. Any irregularities. Dip. Dab. Dip. Dab. I open the oven door and slide in the tray. The dough will puff up. Inflate. Balloon.

The kitchen is filled with the aroma of coffee, the nutty, chocolaty aroma permeates the room, its potency has been far more electrifying than my morning Earl Grey. I have been in need. The choux have turned a sandy shade. A caramel colour. I stoop down and quickly take out the baking tray, setting it down on the work surface. In the drawer below I have a skewer, a meat skewer, the metal is twisted giving it an ergonomically pleasing look. Perfect for kebabs. For brochettes. For light dining. Perfect also, for the purposes of the next part. I put a linen towel in my left hand to save burning fingers and lift up a pastry ball. Turning it upside down, I take the skewer and pierce a hole in the flat bottom. Delving it deep into its centre. A spear to the heart. Turning it around so that the tip releases any wet strands inside the small globe. The hole will help dry out the inside, it has also created an opening for the piping to come. I return the choux puff back to the tray, leaving it upside down. The inside must be rid of any moisture. The outside must colour more. I repeat the process, piercing, wiggling, until they are all neatly holed. All lying bottoms up on the baking tray. I return them to the oven and, timer on, still use the glass door as my safeguard. They are done when they are done.

I distract myself for that short period when, peeking aside, I decide the time is right. When my will is broken. When I can bear the wait no longer. I turn off the oven and remove the baking tray. The choux has darkened to a tan colour. The inside has dried. No light cracks or crevices on the surface. They have a delicate firmness. Putting them aside, I am happy. For the moment.

Melchior

I have a pan. It is filled with milk, full fat milk, ready to be scalded. Some strands of orange peel, stripped of its white, skin-like pith, are dropped in. The oils will infuse into the milk changing the flavour. Lifting it. I take a bowl from the cupboard. I place a folded cloth under it to stop it sliding when the task begins. Caster sugar. A finer grain of sweet crystal. Poured into the bowl, I turn to the fridge. Eggs. There is a French style coffee cup to my side. Wide. Shallow. A small bowl for the morning café au lait that I never have. I am a first thing tea person. The brittle snap and chime, a discordant harmony of shell meeting rim, as I break a seam into the first egg on the ridge of the large bowl-cup. Pulling apart each half of the shell, I pour the yolk into the left, then right half. Then left and right again. The albumen falling neatly into the wide whiteness that is the cup. The yolk joins the sugar. I repeat the juggling act, again, and again, the countertop becoming a reliquary of calcific crusts. The whites will join more sugar at another time to make an individual meringue. Until then, I cover them in plastic and refrigerate. Shut away. Forgotten.

Before I start in earnest, I open the cupboard door and search for my flours. The ordinary and the abominable. I measure the plain flour and, giving an involuntary shudder, do the same with the cornflour. My skin puckers. Bobbles. Goosebumps. Outside I smile, but inside I am screaming, a pitch that can be heard by the neighbourhood dogs. I. Cannot. Stand. Cornflour. I turn on the milk.

A Whisk. A multi-looped one. A large tool for a simple task. I hold it up, tempted to sing into it. I am no Sinatra. Then lower it into the sugar and yolks. The first bursting beat of the whisk spills bright yellow into the bowl. The yellow, the white, slowly, very slowly, they turn to a light beige. Beige is good. The arm is not. I persist. Beating over a Bain Marie helps but this is not the day. Once I am able to write my name on the surface, I check the milk. A small ring of bubbles around the pan´s wall tell me the milk is ready. The gas I leave for a moment as I lift the pan towards the bowl. I pour in a drop to loosen up the mixture. A drop to heat the egg yolks enough that they will not shock, not cook instantly, not scramble. Slowly I pour in more milk, more, beating vigorously, round and round. The bowl, restrained from sliding by the cloth, juddering at my speed. My arms, stomach and chin, we are all juddering at the speed. The last lactose drops fall.

I pour out the bowl into the pan and move it onto the hob. Slowly the heat increases. Slowly it takes effect. A gentle paddle action by my spatula helps stir, ensuring nothing sticks to the base. The eggs and flour create a thickness to the milky sauce, becoming joyously creamy. Thicker still it becomes, my spatula caressing the sauce, teasing the mixture, until the moment I lift it off the heat. I take a sieve from a hook near the hob and pour through the contents over another bowl, capturing the orange peels, capturing any lumps, leaving only the smooth custard. The cooling process begins. I reach for the roll of plastic wrap. Tearing off a large enough sheet, I dip the centre onto the surface and, holding the edge with one hand, ease it outwards and over the sides of the bowl with the other. Turning the bowl, I do the same on the other side. The clinging nature of the wrap will prevent any air getting in, any skin forming while it cools. We have got this far. We must wait.

My waiting does not mean I have nothing to do. I have other tasks to perform elsewhere. Beyond this space. In another dimension. But the kitchen pulls me back like an addiction. And so, I go for another hit. I drop a spoon of apricot conserve into a small milk pan found in the furthest corner of the cupboard. The pouting lips on each side hint at its function. With the kettle, just boiled, I pour a splash, not much more than the spoonful of jam. Lemon juice, the smallest squeeze, from a discarded half that has been squandering time amongst the eggs in the fridge door. I return it quickly and shut the door. No one will ever know. I grab a box. The whispering shh of the match lights the hob, and it starts to heat up. It bubbles quickly. Stirring it. Mixing it. Melded to a light syrupy consistency. A drop more water to ensure it is a glaze not a glue. A rapid stir. The pan is placed on a trivet away from any more heat. I place a sieve on a small enamel dish. Blue lipped and white based. It is dented and chipped in various places, the marks determining the small bowl´s age, like the rings of a tree. The liquid runs through the sieve, filtering out the fibres of the apricot, leaving me with a lightly flavoured, light coloured glaze. Golden. As bright and sweet as the morning sun.

On the draining board, inside out and freshly washed, I have an old piping bag. The aged nylon triangle has tainted from an ivory to a flesh colour from years of use and age. I dry it. I smell it. Just in case. It is fine. From the drawer filled with a random multiplicity of gadgets and useful things that should be joined together but are not, I eventually find a couple of conical tubes. The smaller, its aperture narrow. It is perfect for the task in hand. The larger, I set aside. A jug is lifted to the countertop. The small tube is force fed into the narrow gullet of the bag, now turned washed side in. The stunted triangular tip, a hole that allows for a perfect fit with the steely nozzle.

The process of piping is a technical one. No art. Just cunning. I curl the wider end of the bag over the lip of the jug to hold it in place. The custard is cooled and skin free as I lift off the plastic film. I take a spoon and ladle some of the confectioner´s cream into the bag. Enough to fill it generously, but not to overfill. I pinch and twist the top, lifting the nozzle end, placing a finger of one hand over the tip to avoid spillage, and hold the twisted knot between my forefinger and middle finger, the rosette lilts on the back of my piping hand, the bag sitting in my palm. I am ready.

I hold a pastry ball and insert the nozzle tip inside the hole I made earlier. A squeeze with the ball of my palm and it is filled, the weight doubling as the custard goes in. I pull the tube away and inspect. No dogs in kennels here. Something I see too often and despair at: choux buns, meat pies, pasties. I. Despair. I lift another ball and repeat the process. Then the next. Then the next one. I refill the bag and continue, a mechanical and meditatory action. Until the last one is done. This one, this partially filled one, I pop into my mouth, relishing the sugar hit and wishing I had more coffee to accompany it. All the choux are filled with custard. But this is not the end.

From the high up place. The shelf beyond temptation. I lower the candied fruit. The dried out, crystalised, strips. I shake the rack, scattering the pieces onto a wooden board. My equipment out. The other, wider, round tipped piping head I found earlier. You will see. And a small knife, its sharpness in direct contrast to its size, which I pull out of the wooden knife block in front of me. I begin my cutting work. Squares. Triangles. Rounds. The nozzle´s nose is used to press into the slice, I push down hard until it gives, and pop out the circular sweet shape with the tip of a skewer. I separate them into groups. Three shapes. Three colours. Three Kings.

Epiphany

I turn the kettle on and wait for the water to boil. While it grumbles, bubbles, roars, I find a pastry brush and put it in the jug. I pour a drop of steaming liquid into the jug, wetting the brush sufficiently. The enamel bowl full of glaze I pull towards me and dip the hot, wet brush in the sugary solution. Yes. You noticed. I made the glaze a little too soon. But the wet brush will loosen an over syrupy solution. And with the deftness of an artist, I lift one pastry, brush on the apricot and return it to the work surface. Taking the crystalised fruit pieces, I stick one of each shape onto the side of the ball in a triangular pattern. The glaze will bind the sweet segments with the will of newlyweds. I put the first of many down and raise the next choux. I do this one by one by one. Occasionally washing my fingers as they get quagmired in stickiness.

The choux puffs are done. The jewels looking upward, outwards as if eying the stars. The heavens. But there is one final act in this marathon of sugar. I have a crown. No. Not real. It is made from card. The inside, white. The outside, a gold that shines manufactured brilliance in the kitchen´s light. Its narrowness would barely fit a cat, certainly not a king, nor the Infant Child. I take the pastry brush and stir the glaze in the bowl. Holding the crown at the spiked head, careful not to crease, dent, crush the pointed tips, I lift the brush and paint two stripes around the base. One at the very bottom. The next slightly higher.

I have a display setting for cakes. A silvered disc that raises any cake a finger´s width or so above any feastly setting. The crown is placed dead centre. A little up. A little down. Right a bit. Left a bit more. It. Is. Centred. Taking a choux-roll, I lay it against the card. Holding the card on the inside and pushing both together lightly to set it in place. Again, and again, I repeat the process. Turning the disc as I work around the crown´s base. I breathe. That was the easy bit. I start again. This time around they will sit on top of the first layer, a pastry above straddling two below. Carefully, I begin. I apply a light pressure from behind the card but also on top of each roll to help them stick. It may have been better to use cocktail sticks, but I have started and there is no going back. The trick is trying not to press too hard, or a gooey mess will ensue. I turn the base again, a little at a time. More tentatively, otherwise, balls will fall. Until all the puffs are positioned. One above two. Triangles of sweet-filled pastry that mirror the crown´s points above. A showcase desert for a festive night.

It is evening. Outside the night sky is diamond studded. No guiding star here, though. While it may look beautiful, it means a chilly night. The fire is roaring. Its orange glow throwing an enveloping warmth. Candles light the darkened part of the room where the meal will be eaten. Intimacy. Whispered conversations. The table has been laid out with celebratory settings: crystal, plates, silverware and good wines. However, I have left a large space in the table´s centre. I normally bring a dessert into the room at the end of the meal, sometimes plated, portioned. Sometimes more casually brought in a bowl for guests to help themselves. Tonight, however, Epiphany, the crown will sit centrepiece. A glowing, golden temptation throughout dinner until the diners are able to succumb to temptation over coffee and digestifs without having their fingers smacked.

Me? I have absorbed aromas, smells, olfactory odours, preparing this dish. I have consumed them. And. I. Am. Already. Full. Coffee and maybe a small measure of something strong is enough. Maybe a large measure of something. But I am happy.

But for my friends, those choux rolls, a nod to the Roscon de Reyes served in Spain at this time of year. Those pastry cases. Those light bites filled with an enriched and infused cream will tease and revive their end-of-meal palates. One ball will surely not harm. But I know my guests well. They will talk, absently take another one, consume one, drink, take one more, eat more, chat more and, with any luck, enjoy them all. Quickly. Suddenly. Stripping the crown bare. And just like Epiphany, the choux are there one minute, and the next minute, gone. And they will hopefully not even notice.

Winter is approaching. Seemingly quicker than the cars that whizz along the concrete track that leads past the house that nestles in a valley between two towns. A rat run. The setting sun loses its heat quickly as I walk the dog, picking up twigs and branches that have fallen in the storm. That storm. The storm that had me, us, racing a mile through a low cloud curtain of water, the day before. Neither the dog, nor I, looked dignified at the finishing line. The wood should be wet, but the wind blows as quickly as the cars that whizz along… you get it. They are dry.  

The fire is lit. It is struggling. I need more wood. Outside, I take a handful of twigs, thick and thin, and start to fold them. A tight twisted bunch. A faggot, I suppose; though witch burning has long ceased, I assume. I take a branch. I find my saw. Long. Toothy. It bends like an Errol Flynn foil. I choose a spot and begin the rhythmic action. The surface, a stone wall and a step, hardly safe, is peppered with a flurry of golden dust. My arm and shoulder aches. The piece is young. Tough. I should not have started so close to a woody knot. The breathless, wheezing rhythm occasionally halted by a buckling blade. The wobble working up my arm. Loosening my neck and shoulders with circular movements, as a wrestler or boxer might, I pick up the freshly cut parts. I open the wood burner, and carefully add them to the struggling fire. Considered placement. Sure-handed placement. The room will warm as I prepare the meal.

I take a saw. My shoulder and arm throb warily over more action. But I have to take another step backward to go forward.

Soffritto. Włoszczyzna (I can´t either). Italian stuff. The base of all fine meals. We have been here before.

I have onion, a large orb, its parchment tawny. Two sticks of celery, pale green stems fading to white. A carrot. Big. It barely tapers.

Orange. I start with the carrot. The peeler, a wooden handled old favourite. Inherited. It ribbons the florescent skin. The curls landing on the worksurface are practically translucent. My knife, razor edged and freshly whetted, cuts three times. Four blocks. I take the first. Stand it upwards. Slice it downwards. Rectangles. Not too thick. I lay it sideways. Draw the knife lengthways. Batons. Spreading them with my fingers, I take the sticks and cut them into small cubes. I repeat three more times. Stand. Slice. Baton. Dice.

Celery. Topped and tailed, the curve of the root end I make a sideways slice to get rid of the wispy parts. I lay them down, horizontally, and chop the stalks in half. One turn. The ridges on the outer part to guide my blade neatly through the fibrous flesh. Four strips. Eight strips. Another turn. Diced. They pile up. I repeat that once more. Strip and dice.

My onion is denuded of the paper like skin. Stripped immodestly to the slightly green, opalescent flesh. It too will be diced. The root de-haired but intact. The knife goes to work halving the rounded root vegetable. Face side down I hold the blade horizontally cutting toward the root, twice. My palm on top preventing slipping or cuts. I turn the onion and cut downwards from one end to the other. Some people cut down first and then across. Perhaps they are religious. But. There. Is. No. Rule. The finale is always the same. A cutting down. A watching of tumbling dice over the chopping board. There are two halves but only one pile.

Garlic. A couple of segments. A few pale purple pieces. I smash the side of my fist on the side of the blade crushing the flesh inside. I remove the skin; it comes away easily. Four more times. I like garlic. I have Spanish Pan Ajo y Tomate for breakfast before making any in-person complaints. Try it. Salting the crushed cloves, I start to massage the pile with the side of my knife. Blade facing away. Paddling. The salt´s coarseness helping dissolve the fibres and rendering the allium into the perfect perfumed paste.

Some bay leaves, some thyme. A small branch. I leave the sprig intact. I will pick out the herbs at the end of cooking. They are added to the board that is bejewelled with various vegetables.

I take a saw. Wait. There is more to do first.  

My blade is sharp and keen as any novice eager to prove himself. Holding the bone in the middle, I cut around the uppermost part of the drumstick to release the skin. The tendons. The gristle.  A double ridged knuckle that seems as sensuous in its curves as the head of a violin, though a bone violin would surely belong to the imaginings of Gaston Leroux. Gloriously Gothick.

The drumstick, its dimensions giving me a ´Through the Looking Glass´ feel, I lay on its side. Using a small cocktail stick I pull the skin together underneath the drum´s bulbous base and weave. In. Out. Three times. The stick will keep the skin secure and taught while cooking.

At the top I make four cuts in the skin . Equally spaced. Equidistant. Downwards from the knuckle to the bulk of the meat. I peel, exposing the tendons and the tapering muscle. Laying the leg on its side I use the blade to cut through and discard the excess meat. Those tendons, those tough as bamboo cane tendons, I snap with the snip of some meat scissors.

I take my saw. A fretsaw. One used only for food. I inhale, a nervous little breath. The blade, sharp-edged, reminding me of a former neighbour´s smile. He opened bottles with his teeth. I shake off the memory and hold the bone end tight in my left hand. I must not fret. The blade, I position as close to the trimmed meat as possible. I push forward. Tentative strokes to get some purchase before increasing the movement. Back and forth. My hand becomes greasy as the heat increases. I grab a paper towel, wrap it around the end and tighten my grip. The sawing is quick as the bone makes lighter, kinder work than the log for the fire. It is hollow after all. I turn the drumstick a fraction in intervals. I do not want a splintered edge. Finally feeling the ´give´, the release of one part from the other, I watch the ball-shaped end fall away with the final twitch of the blade. I release a sigh.

A butter knife. The smallest blade. A palate. A tool. The flaps of skin, cut earlier, one by one, are pushed, are persuaded, into the space between the flesh and the bone at the cut end. I repeat the entire process with the other drumstick. The cut. The slice. The peel. The wedge. The lot. The second one looks better. It always does. The Negroni, made sbagliato by the festive addition of sparkling wine, looks better still. I resist until the job is done. 

The oven is on. The Dutch oven is lifted into place beside the hob. The music, jazz from the Perugia Festival, adding to my Italian credentials, brings a harmonic rhythm to the ever-increasing heat of the kitchen. The turkey needs to cook.

I pour a generous double glug of olive oil into a sauté pan. This year´s harvest has been poor, but I cannot scrimp where cooking is concerned. The match´s cough sparks the hob to life. And I wait. I wait for a ripple, a shimmer in the glass green pool. I throw in the carrots, guiding them from the board with the back of a spatula. Sizzling squares, slow turning from orange to a more golden hue. I cool the carrots with the celery to prevent caramelisation. The ridges and crunch will slowly render to a gentle bite. A few tosses, chef´s style, to coat, to cover, to mix. In slide the onion dice. Another toss or two. A sprinkling of sea salt. Diamonds on dice on cubes. The heat comes down and I step away. A momentary pause to allow the vegetables to become a softer soffritto base. I pour the glistening vegetables into the Dutch oven ready for the slow cooking.

In the fridge door is a tube, toothpaste-like in shape, its middle pressed more than the bottom end. No cleaning of teeth here. I twist off the red cap and squeeze. Tomato purée ekes out. A mouse´s paw. A couple of paws. A chihuahua´s tender pad. It is a dollop of purée, sitting neatly amongst the vegetables. Waiting to be loosened with wine. With stock. I return the tube to the fridge and shake my head in resignation that no one squeezes from the base.      

The sauté pan is returned back to the hob. A little extra oil is drizzled in. Again, I wait for a ripple. A sign that the oil has reached a workable temperature. I hold the bone of the turkey on either side. My finger and thumb become the tongs, the axle, as I lift the first ossobuco, the first donut, onto the surface. It hisses. Ironic. Geese hiss. It crackles. I slowly roll the meat like a tyre around a steel track. Enough to catch the skin. Enough to brown lightly. Just enough. A cockier man than I might hold a piece in each hand, but I can guarantee the loss of the pan, the meat and therefore the meal to that type of folly. I play safe.  

The skin is browned, the soffritto is glistening, the tomato, its flavour enriching the sauce. All sit in the Dutch oven ready for a slow cook. I throw in some bay from the garden, crushing them in my hand and momentarily enjoying the almost nutmeg and white pepper aroma that comes from the leaves. A good glass of white wine and a large jug of stock from a large pot that I heated earlier from frozen. It all goes Dutch ways.

I square off a piece of parchment, torn from an old tube that gathers dust atop the fridge. Folding it into half, then half again. The small piece I triangulate. Once. Twice. Three times. Until it is a fine dart. The tip is measured to the centre of the ironware, and I cut the edge to give it a neatness. Opening it up, it has become a pleated flower. A ridged round. I scrunch it all up. No. Not in a fit of anger or despair that something went wrong. I scrunch it up. That is all. Turning on the cold water, I wet and shake lightly the balled paper, then open it out over the casserole. Cartouche. I often imagined that was a character played by Stewart Granger in swashbuckling films. I know. Aluminium foil then covers the pot. I put the lid on top then twist the foil to create a piped band around the edge. A metal luting paste to seal in the air, the liquid. If it were a bread oven and an overnight slow, slow cook, I would probably mix some flour and water and make the messy crust. But I have little time to enjoy such luxuries. And no bread oven.

With a careful posture, knees not back, I lean forward and place the pot in the oven noting the time on the old wooden clock hanging beside the door. I have some time before the next stage. But if I want that negroni, I need to prepare.

A boiled kettle gives me enough hot water to dissolve a tuft of saffron in a teacup. The dusky red strands reluctant to immerse at first. I persuade them with a spoon. Their sinking produces a brilliant yellow cloud that infuses the water. I allow the process to continue its course while I continue mine.  

In the basket of alliums, I find a suitably small onion. Nothing too large. I peel off the parchment, discard the hairy root, and slice it through to make it easier to remove the unnecessary layers from each half. I lift up the knife and saw across, turn the onion, cut down, turn again and fine slice into minute pieces that don´t outshine the grains of rice that I am to cook. Risotto rice. Arborio.

I wait. I allow myself a small cat lick sip. A slurp. The orange cuts through the syrupy bittersweetness of the liquor with its citrus tang, compliments the prickle of prosecco. But the forceful punch of the alcoholic spirit makes me sit down. A slurp is enough. I grab a handful of wafery crisps and ram them into my mouth until there is no more room. I must stay focused.

The time has arrived. Time to be a sorcerer in the kitchen. All the pans are out. All the equipment. Whatever is needed, I will have it to hand. Or so I hope.

I reach for my oven gloves and stoop. The action of opening the door leaves me temporarily blind and grasping for the handles of the Dutch oven. I raise and settle it on the work surface. Steamed sight slowly restored. My glasses cleared. I lift off the foil, far end first so the steam does not burn me. Then the parchment. With my tongs I carefully lift out the turkey pieces, the ossobuchi, brushing off any soffritto. I put them in the foil and wrap them tight. Over a large pan, I pour the sauce through a sieve. The vegetables I recycle. Yes. Using them in a fried mix at another time. They sit in a box to cool. The foiled meat is put into the pot and held warm in the oven.

I hold a match to the gas and watch the blue flames spark out. The sauce I am going to reduce to a glossy jus. It is not strong. I have to do the abominable. I find a small bowl and a measuring spoon. One tablespoon of cornflour. That is all. But the horror of it squeaking has every hair on my body standing on end. I brave the powder, quickly loosening it with water in the bowl, slaking it into the sauce. Whisking away all evidence. I shudder. I turn to the rice.   

There is a frying pan. A smaller frying pan with high sides. I open the fridge and spot a knob of butter sitting in the butterdish on a shelf at eye level. It is the remnant of breakfasts past and needs to be used. Over that I drizzle a small amount of olive oil. Something to stop the butter browning. Its burn point lower than the oil. The hob´s fiery cough starts to warm the pan and I slide in the onion, await a hissing sizzle, salt and lower the heat. I let them sweat. To turn glassy.

I add the rice and the process begins. The toasting. I allow the perfumes to rise before adding white wine. The sigh. I add the saffron at this stage. I bow to wiser heads that say it is the wrong time to add it, but I do it anyway. I watch as the liquids are absorbed, stirring them in, whisking the sauce in the other pan. We were given two hands; I just wish I were part octopus. I dip the ladle into the stock pot starting the process of cooking the rice through. Four parts stock to rice in theory. I have a large pot with a lot of liquid. I will have to eyeball it. Parting of the waves. The next ladle is poured.

I whisk the sauce in the other pan again. It is becoming slowly more unctuous. The bubbles becoming more frenzied in their boiling. The kitchen is steaming with excess moisture. It is cold out, the winter nights have meant fires, layers and extra blankets to sleep under. I shed my layers as I glisten like the condensation on the windows.

Another ladle, one pan. Another whisk, the other. The enriched sauce is ready first, the formation of the bubbles hinting at the richness I want. It allows me to concentrate on the risotto. A quick stir of the rice and I remove the sauce from the hob. Down. I remove the Dutch oven from below. Up. Lifting the lid and un-foiling with care the turkey pieces. Removing the cocktail sticks. I pour in the sauce, now thickened to a creamier consistency. Down. I return the meat. Back in the oven it goes, but not before I part the rice again and add another ladle. Moses would be proud.

The bowls follow the Dutch oven as I place them at the bottom to heat through. The risotto having taken some time, is now at the final stage. I double check the bite with a small spoon; resistance not crunch, before removing the sauté pan from the heat. Mantecato. I open the fridge. I have no tired, needy knobs of butter in a dish. A new packet of butter sits in the door. I carelessly cut through the silver paper, allowing myself a generous chunk. No time for neatness. I cut it into cubes and throw two or three onto the rice and cover the pan with a lid. It will rest for a few minutes. It will settle.

Gremolata. In a small corner of the kitchen, that is what is left of my working area, the pots and pans taking over, I place a small chopping board onto the work surface. From a tall jar holding various herbs, I reach for the parsley pulling a healthy handful. My knife makes easy work of the flat green leaves, the herbaceous aroma cutting through the smells of stew, stock, rice. With a plane I grate a garlic clove. Flurrying the flesh into the chopped herb. The basket of citrus fruit has an abundance of lemons. I take a particularly dimpled and gnarled one. Unwaxed. It too flakes finely into the parsley leaving the lemon white and pithy. I pinch the ingredients together, mixing with my thumb and two forefingers. Lemon and garlic oil fingerprints. It is enough.

I put on my oven gloves. Stooping down I open the door and take the bowls out first. Their rims fiery hot. Their bases, nicely heated. I return and squatting, ease out the Dutch oven holding the turkey and sauce. Knees not back. The risotto lid is off, and I stir in the melted butter. I tilt the pan and dip a large silver serving spoon into the yellow rice lifting a measure to the bowl. It forms a taught pile in the centre before relaxing, spreading slightly into a more comfortable form. I repeat with the other bowl. I take off the casserole lid. With my tongs and a spoon underneath to prevent the meat falling off the bone, lift a turkey piece and place it lightly on top of the rice. My ladle scoops up the jus, pouring it around the rice, creating an island of yellow in a sea of sauce. Finally, I pinch some gremolata and sprinkle it over the turkey. The warmth of the meat releasing the perfume of the parsley mix.

The buttery risotto rice ripples on the tongue, and the jus teases the tastebuds with its silky, sweet-saltiness. While the citrus garlic garnish provides a shock tang to temper the richness. The meat, the turkey, falls willingly from the bone.

I took a saw. For all my calm it is something I have never done before. I did not fret.

I took a saw.

Salty.

I have a bowl of water. Salted water. Tepid. As salty as the sea. So salty I could almost float in it. But I have already had a dip. A plum purple eggplant... that word would not have made the pages of a Marcel Pagnol memoir, although this recipe might have. For the purposes of this dish, I will defer to the local vernacular. A plum purple aubergine rolls across my chopping board towards the edge of the counter. Its skin shiny, patent, polished. I grab it. My knife. Cool steel. Silver grey. Razor sharp. With casual precision, I top and tail it, removing the residual pale green leafy tips that cling tightly to the skin. I dice the vegetable. Half thumb sized squares, revealing the spongey, creamy interior. The chopping inaccurately quick as the flesh, like an apple, colours. Oxidises. I tilt the board and watch the purple curved corners and ivory cubes tumble into the half-glazed bowl. Into the salted water. I pick up my other aubergine.  Au-ber-gine. Cut. Cube. Cascade. A large circular lid from a Dutch oven covers the bobbing blocks, forcing them under the water and out of sight. I walk away. They will sit for an hour or so, the salt water will leech the bitterness, will prevent any taint.  

I step out of the kitchen and onto the terrace towards the terracotta pots that contain thyme, bay, sage, rosemary. No Scarborough Fair here. And sadly, none of the basil that authenticity would allow. The sun´s light searing the eyes, the tiles, reflecting the heat, increasing the temperature. My scissors snip a bushy branch of thyme and a couple of bay leaves. Held tight as I return to the shadier, kinder climate of the kitchen. Squeezing the leaves in my hand to release the perfume. The peppered cream bouquet and citrus scent, a ghost of a smell evaporates from my palm as soon as the bay is dropped into the pot. I put them both in the bottom of the Dutch oven. Into the creamy ceramic bowl´s base, stained dark from years of use.

Onion Johnny.

The wicker basket. It contains all the alliums possible. Discarded skins line the base like feathers in a nest and amongst them onions, scallions and garlic. I pick out a large bulb of garlic. The purple and white parchment reflecting the colours of the eggplant. With my thumbs I rub the loose papery layers, flurrying them into the bin. Leaving only the immediate skin to protect the individual segments. I take my knife and cut the bulb horizontally, just close enough to the top to expose the cloves´ flesh. To expose me to the intense garlic aroma. If they could fuse garlic and fried bacon together, my mouth would be dripping like a broken faucet. You may not feel the same way. The bulb sits jauntily with the herbs.  

The fridge door rattles as I open it, revealing a host of jars, the contents half consumed and waiting to be finished or, forgotten, turning to mould. There are some eggs, bottles, packets of butter and, hidden behind all of them, a cool metallic tube of tomato purée thumb-dimpled in the centre like toothpaste. NON! Squeeze from the bottom please. I hold the end and with a spoon force the purée up towards the cap. A good measure is squeezed into the Dutch oven to join the garlic and herbs. Then, an act of spite really, I curl the bottom upwards and roll it towards the top to prevent any more unnecessary, upsetting dimples. My smile as wonky as it is smug.

On the windowsill, tomatoes ripen in the sun. I shake the vine lightly to let the ripest drop off. Five tumble in my direction. In every direction. I wanted three. The heady smell of the vine hits my nose. Scents my fingers with a benzine whiff as I test the five for the most ripened. Soft. Squidgy. I select my three and leave the others on the work surface to cut, roast and add to a sandwich later. Turning them on the board, navel side down, my knife´s keen edge makes easy slicing through the centre of the fruit. Yes, it is, isn´t it. Two halves part. I slice each half again making chunky quarters. The wedges face upward as I hold down the flesh with my fingertips and cut under the pulp, my blade horizontal, to remove the gelatinous pippy and pithy parts that are un-cookable. Indigestible. Inedible. I go to work slicing the flesh further. Long strips. Cutting what is left into squares, until I have a roughly chopped pulpy mound. Concasse it is not. Twelve quarters. Six halves. One pile, pale and flavoursome. Using the spine of the knife, I scrape it into the pot.

I take two medium sized onions. Lightening the basket of its abundant alliums only a little. The papery outer layers autumnal oranges and pine browns. Crisp. Crackling. As brittle as fallen leaves. The broken skin revealing the softer, lighter centre. I slice the tips off and turn them around to snip off the hairy roots ensuring that the round, creamy core is removed. I chop. Three slices one way. Four slices the other. The onion chunks reflecting the size of the eggplant. Squared off. Cubed. I cry. Not with joy. I cry more. I leave the kitchen for a while. The brilliant sun for once seems to smart less.

A crunchy capsicum, campanile sized. A bell pepper. Brilliant yellowy red, its skin shines almost as bright in the sunlight as the eggplant. My knife goes to work. Tail first. Twist. Turn. Chop. Taking off the green hooked stem and a rosette of the pepper´s top. I break the flesh away from the green and rest it with the base to one side. I take the red fibrous tube, standing it upside down, I cut downwards through a dimpled crease. Creating an opening. I lay it on its side. The cone of seeds facing me. My fingers gently hold the top as my blade slides through the first pithy ridge, then, slowly rolling the pepper open as the knife continues its cutting mission below. I change position, holding the pepper flat with my palm behind the knife. The last cut releases the seeded cluster and I discard it with a flick. No white pips. No mess. Well, almost. I cube the capsicum, trimming here and there where the knife has missed the pith.  

Zucchini. The mini marrow. Courgette, even. Leafy green flecked with yellow. Its long, arched and bulbous shape finishing in a hard pentagonal root. I wash it lightly under some running water. It is organic after all. Patting it dry, I take the knife and top and tail it, revealing pale yellow interior. Three quick cuts with the blade and I up end each of the four pieces. I bring the first one close to me. The knife runs through the centre horizontally. A gentle turn, sixty degrees, but I am eyeballing it. I cut again. Another gentle turn, another sixty degrees. Another cut. I flatten the six wedges on the chopping board and cube them. Like the onion. Like the bell pepper. Just like the aubergine. All complementing the other. I repeat. Cut. Twist. Sixty. Cut. Twist. Sixty. Until there is no more to chop.

I pause.

I lift the lid of the Dutch oven, raising it from the salted water and place it on a draining rack. The aubergine chunks resistant to sinking, bob back to the surface. Placing a large, enamelled colander in the sink I watch the water pour out through the perforations, over and around the cubes. The tinted liquid like weak tisane. A few shakes to get rid of any excess I lay the pieces on paper towel to pat dry. They join the other ingredients.

Unorthodox.

I am no Cézanne, but this cubist medley of vegetables, this nod to Nice, will be art. An Occitan original. A stir up of squares, chunks, tiles that are waiting turns to be fried. There is an order. The approach to this recipe is not traditional, but you will see.

My frying pan is large. The widest one I have. Heavy. The non-stick long gone. I pour, no drizzle here, olive oil to cover the base and slide in the onions. The match strike reminding me of the hissing of pebbles from a wave´s retreat. The gas, the boom of the waves as they strike the shore. Perhaps I liked my swim too much. The oil starts to sizzle as the heat takes. I sprinkle some sea salt to break down the fibres. Generously. Maybe too generously. The heat is lowered to the minimum. Onions like to be eased into hot temperatures. It prevents browning and bitterness. Little is needed other than patience to create translucent flakes. A few flicks of the pan, chef style, to keep the cooking even. That. Is. It.  

Olive oil. Another glug. My mosaic of bitter bell pepper bites needs to soften. The gentle heat is lifted ever so slightly. I do not want the skin to burn, blacken, crisp. The softening will take time. So the heated pan will stay reasonably low. The skin slowly puckering, dimpling, will give me a clue to the tenderness. The level of resistant bite. Not too much. The crisp capsicum is slowly persuaded to become pliable. Soft. Sweet.

Courgette replaces the bell pepper, that I have slid into the Dutch oven. Curved sided, squared off, glistening pieces. Beads of moisture dot the cut edges. Sweat like. They will be getting their workout momentarily. The heat comes up. Olive oil shimmers at the base of the pan, the aroma distinct and peppery, inviting the vegetable to coat itself in the grassy, glassy liquid. Unlike the onions the hiss-sizzle of the wedges hitting the fat drowns out any outside noises. I shake, flick, riddle, the pan ensuring that the oil´s invitation is truly accepted. A confetti of salt flakes to help draw out the juices and lightly caramelise the creamy edges. To gently turn tan, enough to give a contrast of colour. I empty the pan, the courgette cascading over the onions, herbs, tomatoes, purée.    

More oil. Absolutely. But not so much that it becomes an oily dish. This is not a confit. I just want enough to help the aubergine fry, to gain a light tinged brownness. Awaiting the cue, the rippling oil, the lost viscousness, I take only a handful of cubes, not wanting to crowd the pan, and toss them in. More shaking. More tossing. More spitting, my bare flesh feeling the occasional sizzle. The pan is at its hottest now from so much use. But the aubergine can take it. I toss and wonder why the same culprit cubes land back on the caramelised side. I use a spatula to correct their erroneous ways. All sides done, I use the same tool to flick the spongy squares into the Dutch oven. I take another handful and repeat, checking whether I need a little more oil to fry. I repeat again, and once more. Topping up the oil level where necessary. A sense of urgency as I feel the heat of the pan through the handle, as the frying chunks take less time each round, as I start to sweat, my arms feeling the strain of the work. The final handful fried and flicked into the bowl, I step back and admire the area where the spitting oil has misted over the counter and hob. A monochrome Jackson Pollock of grease. Oh well.  

There is a carton of white wine. Yes, I cook with it. It resides with the condiments, the salt, pepper, and vinegars. I find a tumbler. An octagonal bottomed glass, bistro style, appropriately. I fill it. Up to the level just beyond what may be considered a polite measure. Pale straw coloured and lemon scented. An acidity that will help break down the fibres of the vegetables further. Add a depth of flavour. It is tipped into the Dutch oven. With a spatula I stir, mix, combine all the ingredients, ensuring the purée is dissolved. I find the lid and cover the contents.   

The oven has been warming up for a while now. Oven? Surprise. Some people do their Bolognese sauce in the oven. I do not judge. Well maybe a little. Gloved, I open the oven´s door, avoiding the blast of heat, pulling out the shelf a third of the way and with a weightlifter´s stance slowly lift and lower the cast iron bowl onto it. Bend the knees not the back! I push the shelf in and shut the door. A choreographed ballet of movement that seemingly takes time but is merely a blink. Heat is barely lost from opening the door. I make a mental note of the time and pour myself a drink. A light break.

Salted.

I have water. Salted water. Cold. This time not as salty as the sea. A mere pinch. A spoon´s tip. I fumble for a match in the bottom of the box. Tricky creatures if you have no length in your nails. I retrieve one. Finger wrestled out. One strike. The blue gaseous ring begins to heat the pan. Rice. Oryza indica. Long grain. Single sourced. Well, sourced from a single supermarket. Life is rarely that exotic. I measure a half cup of polished pearlescent grains. And wait for it the water to come to a rolling boil.

I distract myself with fish. Sea bass. Cleaned but not filleted. Skin as silver grey as my knife. My fish knife. It is pliable. Bendy. Sharp. I lay the fish down, its dorsal fin towards me, the head to my right. Its cold, dead eye staring. Staring at me. It. Was. Not. Me. I slash. Behind the gills and under the fin. A merciless, deep slicing movement. Down to the spine and through the flesh of the belly. I make a small cut at the tail, a finger´s width from the end. My palm holding the fish down, the blade flat, I draw the knife down, from behind the head, and using the spine as my guide, towards the tail. I pull off the fillet and trim the edges, setting it aside to await the other. I turn the fish over, its frame touching the board´s surface, its head lolling onto the counter. It is deliberate. The fish is flatter, easier to cut. I repeat the slicing process. Removing the fillet, trimming it, bagging the frame in a freezer bag for stock. Tweezers. I rummage for fish tweezers in my knife roll, remove the most evident of bones.

Time.

Time is important now. Time. There was I time when all I could cook was the meal I am now putting together, without the fish. That and egg, boiled or fried. A garret in Paris. Sounds romantic. It was not. I cooked it badly. It took years to un-learn my dislike of this Southern French stew. Thank goodness the job I had then provided lunch. 

The water is gurgling, rolling. Boiling. I let the rice fall into the pan, a shower of grain, and stir it clockwise to avoid sticking. The clock is ticking. I dress my hands in oven gloves and open the oven´s door. A sudden cloud of vapour hits my face. Blinds me in whiteness. I forgot to remove my glasses. I count to ten then, in a crouch pull out and lift up the weighty iron casserole that holds my meal and place it on a hob ring next to the boiling rice, slamming the door with my foot. I lift my glasses, then lift the lid. Ha! I want to check that the liquids have evaporated enough. That the vegetables have melded and have become a tangle of flavours. It is slightly wetter than is traditional but then, that is why I have the rice. I place the lid back askew, it will allow the contents to stay warm, and stir the rice. Clouding water, some frothy scum, is tipped into the sink. I tilt the pan and drain the rice through a sieve, putting the sieve in the pan and a lid on top.

Under the counter, amongst plates, gratin dishes, roasters and some baking trays, I pull out a pasta style bowl. I put it into the still hot oven. The frying pan, used for the various stages of this concoction, is wiped with a paper towel and placed on the still lit hob the rice was boiling over. I wait.  

With a cupped hand, I gently rub a small amount of olive oil on each fish fillet. Scatter a small drift of sea salt over the flesh side and hold my hand an inch above the frying pan to check the heat, although the sweet aroma from its previous use gives me enough of a hint. It is hot. Steak searingly hot. I place the fillets skin down into the pan. The hiss and crackle eases and is overtaken with the scent of the sea, ozone and fish. A catering friend taught me this trick and I am forever grateful. I watch the fish´s flesh turn slowly to white around the edges. Just enough. Like a highlighted edge framing the fillet´s whole. I flip them over and remove the pan from the heat. A minute. No more.

I grab a timbale, lightly greased, and fill it with some rice. Firming it down with the back of the spoon, I pull the bowl closer and turning the mould over, slam it onto the surface. Then gently lift the metal casing away. I have a mound. I rummage in a drawer for an antique ladle.  Removing the Dutch oven lid, scoop up some deliciousness and carefully place it around the pile of rice. I swear it´s going to go. Finally, I lift out the fillets of sea bass, turning them over on a board to reveal the lightly browned flesh. I slice one into three, the other into two, and arrange them over the vegetables. Some parsley garnish, just a small scattering. It is done.

A touille. A stir up. Ratatolha.

Ratatouille.  

“Please Sir, can I have some more?”

A trip to Broadstairs, England. A place where Dickens wrote, away from the distractions of his ever-growing family. Though apparently, he did not write Oliver Twist there. A place where the battle between two Italian families spills over onto the tables set out on the Victorian pathways overlooking the Channel. Overlooking France. The only blood red to be seen in this rivalry is the strawberry coulis that tops their warring wares.

Ice cream Sundaes of the Knickerbocker kind. The recipe from the hotel of the same name in New York that also brought you the Martini, transported to the southern shores of England. Their mountainous scoops in deep vase-like glasses spill creamy tears over the edges, providing more calories than an adult, even more so a child, could feasibly take in a sitting. And yet. And yet.

“MORE?”

I rarely eat ice cream. I rarely eat anything lactose. But once every so often is a treat for my palate that is in contrast with the opinion of my digestive system. However, Broadstairs inspired me to make a mound of comfort, a custard cream joy. And so, I interpret, boil, bake and simmer to create cool. I have my work cut out for me.  

I take a vanilla pod. Long, black, sticky. Stick like. I pick up a knife. From the top end I pull the blade down the middle splitting it in two. Creating a large “V”. The appealing aroma is sweet, creamy. Addictive. It fills the kitchen as I turn the knife upside down ready to remove the seeds with the spine. Small grains, a paste of dots, as if someone had collected all the punctuation marks out of a gossipy magazine, the scandalously sticky mound builds on the knife´s edge as it draws down to the tip. Pod and beans are scraped, dropped, slid into a pan of cold milk to scald and infuse. Match. Fire. Gas. Fire. The ring is lit, the heat in the kitchen slowly increases. The milk, shimmering from the flame, comes up to temperature. A ring of bubbles around the edge of the pan the clue that it is done. Off with the hob. For now.

I have a pan of simmering water on another hob. Yolks of rich daffodil sit in the bottom of a glass bowl awaiting the steaming heat of the water below. The stream of sugar. A diamond waterfall of crystals drown the yolks, and the whisking begins. Sugar, beaten, cooks the yolks, but the heat from the bath below adds volume. Together they create an unctuous base that I can write my name in. And I do, for good measure. I move the bowl to the work surface. My hand casually covered in cloth to avoid the vicious vapour.

With a fork I carefully lift out the bean from the scalded milk. Dip it in the simmered water to clean off the milk, pat it dry, then add it to a jar of sugar. Vanilla sugar. It is as simple as that. Well, that and some patience.

Slowly, with a large balloon whisk, one selected at the store for its “tool power” macho-ness (I have no tattoos), I prepare to slake the vanilla milk into the egg base. The bowl sitting on a damp cloth and supported by my stomach as I use both hands to do this. Left, pan. Right, whisk. Centre, stomach. You get the picture. A splash at first, to loosen. A larger splash, to mix. The rest is recklessly poured into the bowl, swirled, then all returned to the pan, warming the mix on the hob until it thickens creating the custard. I cover the bowl with wrapping, the clear plastic sitting on the surface to prevent a skin forming. It needs to cool before churning but time is not on my side. I need to sit the bowl in cold water in the kitchen´s sink to hurry it along.

A certain Italian in the seventeenth century, Francesco Procopio dei Coltelli, stole his father´s recipe and took it to France or so the story goes. The iced delicacy made from egg-based cream made him very successful. I am continuing the tradition. (Not theft).

More…

Honey. Cooking is a mixture of science and magic. How, otherwise, can you bring two or three items together and create a deliciously edible nibble? How can you turn vinegar into pearls? How can you suspend bubbles in set honey? Ah…Honey. In the wait for the custard to cool enough to churn, I lightly butter a baking tray I found in the dresser behind me, then nonchalantly tear off some silicon paper to fit the base.

Sugar is already in a steel pan ready to melt. I top this with honey. Not too much, but it is the key to this kitchen magic. Flavour. Colour. Nectar. The match struck, the hob is lit. A sulphurous whisp extinguished in a flash. The uplifting aroma of heated sugar begins to fill the kitchen. I quickly remove an aged pot of bicarbonate of soda from the “sweet” cupboard (yes, I have a “savoury” one. No, it is not the greatest way to organise your kitchen).  

Another whisk stands by, smaller and more exacting for the task. I use it to gently prod the sugar to see if it is all melted. No crystals. I Watch. I Wait. The colour needs to turn amber, appropriate as Autumn´s dawn tinges the vine leaves an orange hue. Slow motion turns to comic speed as the sweet blend turns resinous in tone. I turn off the heat and sprinkle in the soda. Lifting with my left hand, whisking with my right, beating furiously as the chemical reaction, the collision of elements, puffs up the syrup into a wild foamy texture. I quickly pour it into the baking tray. Lava like. It is almost alive as it creeps to each corner. The reaction eases. Slowly starts to settle. I breathe.    

More...

I twist and turn, weightlifting the churner from a small corner cupboard. It is a large steel and chrome machine that takes up a portion of the kitchen. The well for churning a fraction of its size. It will be challenged by the outside heat. I fill the well with the cooled custard, top the lid, flick the switch. The rhythmic growl of the beating blade a reminder of this beast at work. The first layer, the foundation of this desert has begun.

More…

The pan of water used to heat the sugar and yolks I top with another bowl. No waste here. The bowl´s base, assuredly inches away from the water. I retrieve a packet of dark, dark, nearly black chocolate, from the cupboard beside me, so concentrated in cocoa it puckers the mouth. Its cardboard packaging remains for the moment, intact. Smack. I hit the packet on the kitchen´s surface. Smack. I do it again. Smack. Smack. Smack. More times for good measure, the sound cutting through the drone of the churner. The whack, whack, whacking of the chocolate bringing the attention of a curious dog, more so, strangely than the seductive scent of a sugary treat. I strip the cardboard cover off the bar. Its outer layer. Its coat. Fumbling fingers pulling open the foil negligée as impatiently as a lover. The broken shards spilling into the bowl. Tantalising squirts of golden syrup drop from a plastic bottle, the top releasing a flatulent gasp at each measure. A sound that draws out a puerile humour in me as well as a look of curious surprise on the dog´s face. It was not me. Finally, I drown the contents in rich cream leaving the shards of chocolate partially exposed. A discordance of earthy brown and ivory white.  The fizzing flash of the match, I relight the hob, reheat the water. And wait. And wait. The slow acceptance of cream embracing chocolate glues me to the spot. I will not stir until I absolutely have to. Then I do. Slowly. As gentle as an oar through a still pond. Persuading the three ingredients to become sauce. Chocolate sauce.    

More...

Raspberries. A large punnet awaits my destructive hands. I place half in a clean pan. Enough sugar tumbles over them. Enough to create a sweet-sour tang on the tongue. A splash of water, a squeeze of just sliced lemon; I fire up the hob. The pan´s contents transform from a sugary pile to a sticky sauce. Brilliant magenta to the eye. To my nose the aroma, mellow, deep, reminiscent of late season feasts. The contents start to bubble. I use an old serving spoon to ensure all the sugar is gone. Carefully tapping the bottom. Determining the crystal crackle from the dull seed. I let it bubble more to thicken it. To turn it to syrup. The briefest of waits and it is done. I remove a sieve from the wall and place it over a measuring jug, pouring out the contents. With the back of the spoon, I force through the remaining liquid, scraping the underside to get the last drops of the sauce, leaving only a pippy, pulpy puree in the mesh. A quick slam of the sieve on the inside wall of the bin removes most of the seedy sludge. It will take some washing to clean the rest. I will get help. I twist a gold lid off an orb like bottle. A dribble. A drizzle. A splash of liquor will give the juicy berry liquid an adult note. A grown-up glow to a childhood indulgence. I place the jug to one side of the kitchen to let the sauce cool. Coulis. Cool.

More…

Nuts. Almond flakes sit bagged on the worksurface. The bag, the type of plastic that splits at the slightest provocation. Frustrating. This, the last of the preparation work but by no means the last effort. I find a frying pan. Dark and old. Years of use have rendered the non-stick stick, but, like a Volvo, it is solid and handles well enough to keep. I shake a small handful of the nut slices into the pan and again, sizzle a match to light the hob. Heavy, the base, it will heat slowly. Oily, the slivers, they will turn quickly. When it starts I daren´t blink. I shake and wrist flick the pan to ensure that the flakes heat as evenly as possible. Nut. The almond perfume starts to fill the air. Nut. The slices change colour perceptibly. Nut. I shake and flick more vigorously, more in panic than necessity. The speed of their transformation startling. I flick and shake once more to check no almond is left pale. The frying pan is tilted, pouring the tiny tanned nutty tiles onto a chopping board. I turn off the heat and slam down the pan. I am sweating. Nuts.

More…

The churner has stopped. Beeping its atonal alarm with a vigour that is annoying. A warning that it may decide to heat up and undo the good work. I remove the container from the hulking engine and place it on the work surface. With a spatula, a “sweet” spatula (yes, like the cupboards I have a sweet and a savoury set) I scrape the half frozen, well churned ice cream from the paddles, saving the tiniest amount for my finger. Or two. It HAS to be tasted! I place the ice cream churning well in the deep freezer to set. I place myself in a deep chair to reset.  

Wait…

A cool breeze rattles the Persian blinds and the sun inches behind the hills. The shush scraping of oleander leaves as they crawl across the terrace seem to call for quiet. Even the birds have stopped trilling. This is a momentous moment. Momentous? I may have got carried away. I am assembling a festival of flavours. A heavy weight calorie punch. Waistline, watch out!

I find a large plastic bag and a hammer. A meat hammer where a rolling pin might do. Creation through destruction, I muse. I peel the silicone paper off the bottom of the honeycomb and place the golden block in the bag. Bang. I smash down the hammer onto the centre of the bag. The contents explode, jumping to the four corners of the bag´s small universe. Bang. I do it again. The hammer providing a more focused smash. Bang. Bang. With each blow I create shards, decreasing in size. I want crumbs. Large crumbs. A crackling shock to the mouth at just the right moment. The bag is poured out into a bowl.

Wait…  

I have contraband in my fridge. A prohibition era speakeasy-like guilty secret. I am fortunate to have found cream. Clotted cream. A rich Cornish clotted cream with a Welsh sounding name. Do. Not. Ask. Me. How. The cloyingly dense emulsion is so rich even Oliver Twist might have asked for an oat-milk version.

Wait...

The ice cream is out of the freezer. I have left it to soften enough to scoop. No more than that. I have a jug of boiled water and a clenching, springed instrument to shape, lift and drop the vanilla joy. The clotted cream I take from the fridge and those remaining raspberries, I nearly forgot. The coulis. The chocolate sauce. The honeycomb. The toasted nuts. All the ingredients lined up ready. They are. But am I?

There is an antique ice bucket. Georgian perhaps, I am not sure. Taller than it is wide, its ridged vertical edges provide a contrast to the undulating horizontal layers that will fill it. No. I do not want to use a bowl. I want to emulate the Sundae glasses of Broadstairs.

Wait…

A breath. I dip the scooping spoon into the hot water then plunge into the ice cream. Scoop. Lift. Drop. I do this twice more. Raspberries. Broken, whole, partially whole. I scatter. On top, around, in between the ice cream balls. Coulis. A clockwise spiral trickle of to enhance the pinkness of the proceedings. I find a blunt headed butter knife and a teaspoon in the cutlery drawer (no sweet and savoury this time), its classic oval head will shape the cream. At a sideways angle I curl the clotted cream with the spoon and carefully drop it atop the raspberries with the knife´s tip. Smaller sized than the scoops, I repeat this a few times. The large honey gold crumbs stick like burrs on top of the creamy curls. Generous but not overwhelming. There will be plenty left over for another day. Finally, I zig-zag the chocolate sauce. Brown tears of happiness spread over the white, gold and pink. That is only the first layer.  

Wait…

There is more. I gird myself for a second round. Dip, plunge, lift, drop. Scatter, trickle, curl. Crumbs. There is enough for a final but smaller layer. Here I change the order. I scoop again, trickle again, crumb again, curl again. Here I stop for a moment. Raspberries dot the top of the clotted cream. The drizzle of chocolate sauce dances between the fruit.  A flurry of golden shards, almond slices, sticks the chocolate, falls amongst the fruit, the nutty texture a balance to the honeycomb crumbs and the soft berries.

Feast.

The Ice bucket filled high; I place it on a plate, a paper napkin underneath to stop it sliding. Long handled spoons, one for each diner, are pushed down the sides of the bucket. Lifted up and dropped again to recreate the creamy tears, the lactose lachrymosae (I do not speak Latin), over the glass sides. The food fantasia is complete. A sweet Broadstairs bucket brought alive in my kitchen.

I take a match, the last one. Strike it. I have no traditional cherry to top off this mountain, but I have found a sparkler in a drawer full of cake accessories. I wait for the sparkler´s tip to take the heat. To fizzle. Flurries of flames, fountain upwards and outwards.  

I carry it to the table. Carefully, as the sparkler´s light is almost blinding. Lowering it in the middle, I wait until the firework has done its magic, bringing night to the setting. Then walk away. What the Dickens? You say. But today´s effort has left me without appetite for anything much, rich or not. Licking the spoons, all the spoons, counts as a portion. Right?

Debussy plays on the radio, “La Mer” reminding me of Broadstairs (although he composed it in Eastbourne). While the others eat, I go and join the dog on a wall, listen, reminisce, and watch the vanilla moon journey over the hills.

It is hot. Hot in the way you do not see fellow dog walkers for weeks. This long, hot summer´s day has become a long, hot summer´s evening with hues of orange, lemon and gold. Movement leaches liquid. Still air stickiness adding to the discomfort. Even the aroma of fresh herbs is muted. The open windows and doors do little more than invite unwanted, blood sucking insects that home in on my skin. I am loved. For the wrong reasons.

Heat suppresses the appetite. I am not at all hungry. Though pour a pack of potato chips into a bowl and I won´t even use my hands. It is true. I want to work quickly in the kitchen. No long hustle over a hot hob, nor sweating beside a stove. A flash fry perhaps but no more.

I have some lettuce, frisée. Its spikey leaves deliciously tickly. The root torn off in a neck break breakneck wrench, the leaves washed. Dried. Arranged in a wide blue salad bowl. The colour contrasting with the light green salad. Appealing to the eyes if not the stomach. My stomach.

I have a garlic clove. I strip the parchment off. Denuding it. I would like to be that clove given the kitchen´s heat. I grate it finely and set the aromatic mound aside. I have two eggs and some lardons. It is not really very much. But it is enough food that I will not waken in the night with pangs of hunger. The iced jug the other side of the work surface, once filled, will see to my slumberous needs. I fill a pan with water, adding a glug of white wine vinegar, and place it on the hob to bring to a simmer. The explosive fizz of the match and the thumping sound of the gas as it ignites brings me out in a fresh sweat.

A metallic crunching sounds emanates from the merest twist of the cap of the fresh bottle of vermouth. Fortified wine turned golden in the Mediterranean sun. Marseillan, France. Noilly Pratt, the only vermouth I use for this. I pour a measure into the iced filled jug. The cubes crackle from the warm wine. The perfume rises as it hits the ice. Orange zest and clove. Coriander seed. Lemon. Vanilla.

Some swirl the vermouth in their glass then discard it, orally or otherwise. Some swirl and then pour into another glass, then another, until the vermouth runs out. I have one glass in the freezer it has sat languishing in the deep frozenness of the iced cabinet for some time. I am jealous. It will not be used to swirl and discard. And I like vermouth. Mixed liberally with spirit there is a bit less fire on the tongue and more challenge to the palate. The spirit. Gin. Plymouth. The original. I pour it freely in with the vermouth. Eyeballing the measurements. Grainy. Unctuous. Potent. The jug is quite full and ready.    

My vegetable peeler is old and sharp and much better than any modern contraption that has passed through my kitchen in recent years. From my yellow and orange mound of citrus fruits I choose a lemon. The skin less pithy, less dimpled. Holding the lemon upright I push the peeler into the face and pull it down along the surface, removing, Saint Bartholomew style, one plaster like strip of golden skin. I repeat the process again. Then once more. Three strips. I turn them over. The pith is a brilliant white in comparison to the yellow. I take a vegetable knife and tease the blade under it. With a gentle sawing movement, I start to lift off the almost fluffy whiteness. Removing the bitterness. Flicking it away. The remaining skin is now almost translucent. I repeat with the others then drop them into the potent brew. With an antique spoon, I have no swizzle stick, I stir. The campanile chink of ice on glass is shrill and yet appealing. Martini is stirred not shaken. Bond, for all his suavity, got it wrong.

I put an old match to the flame of the lit ring. The blackened tip takes and a second hob ring sparks to life. I heat lardons in a small frying pan. The meat stripes of pink and ivory. A slow rendering, a liquifying of the fat, turning it glass like. The water in the other pan is threatening to boil. I want a simmer. Nothing vigorous. With a sense of urgency, I whack up the heat under the frying pan, letting the lardons spit and sizzle, take some colour. Vermouth. The hissing noise from liquid meeting heat seems exaggerated in the silence, the stillness of the house. I add a bit more. Then a good splash of vinegar. The liquid energy dissipates. The heat lessened. The gas turned off. I sprinkle the grated garlic into the pan to infuse. To perfume.

Crack. I break open and drop an egg into a cup. Crack. Again. Another egg, another cup. They sit side by side, ready to go into the vinegared, simmering water. A parody of afternoon tea. I retrieve the glass from the freezer and pour myself some Martini. Just up to the brim. Nothing to worry about. I need some Dutch courage. I have not poached an egg in years. One gulp. Two. I finish it. Fire fills my lungs and my eyes perceptibly water. That. Was. Strong. I un-grip the counter, colour returning to my knuckles, and pour another. This time it will sit until I serve my salad.

I lower the flame under the pan. With the spoon, I gently stir the water creating a slow-moving whirlpool. I breathe in and pour the first egg in. A Spectral spiral of swirling whisps start to appear. A ghost like dance as the white envelopes the yolk. I help this wrapping motion with my spoon watching as the shape of the poached egg is formed. Time has barely passed. I breathe out. The egg, ready, is lifted onto a paper towel awaiting the second one. I lower the other cup into the water, it is cloudy, flecked with the debris of the first egg. I watch again as the egg takes shape again, teasing the white with the spoon to help form another poach. I lift it out of the pan, the wobble, the jelly wiggle means the yolk will be beautifully runny.     

The leaves await the grand finalé sitting patiently in the salad bowl. I carefully place the two eggs amongst them. In the centre. Side by side. The white balls, more ovalene, relax into their new space. I take some olive oil and pour it over and around the salad. Green with hints of gold drizzled onto the leaves and egg. The frying pan with the lardons is tilted over the bowl. The hot vinaigrette trickles out before the bacon bits start to tumble. Its heat will soften the leaf tips. Provide a gentle tickle rather than a scratch. The bacon adding speckles of colour. Sea salt scattered carelessly; the salad is done.

I pick up my glass of Martini. And sip. Immortalised by e.e. cummings as a “mellow and yellow” drink, I take in the lemony grainy mix made softer by the vermouth. An entente cordiale of British gin and fortified French wine. A refreshing French salad, frisée aux Lardons. French, French, mostly French. I am if nothing else, consistent. Well, almost.       

My dish comes from a Mediterranean island, the subject of my daydreaming, whose Italian dialect gives a nod to the meal´s origins. Beaches usually found in dreams contrast with wind and rain hewn course granite mountains. Isolated villages nestle amongst the low fragrant course shrubland and high forests. The home of bandits. The land of Napoleon. But you guessed already? Of Corse.

I have sausage. Not the figatellu that is traditional. I cannot find it. I am using luganega sausage, its northern Italian equivalent. They are skinned. The meat placed in a bowl. The kitchen is filled with the aroma of fennel and garlic. It is strong. As intense as a pine perfumed sauna. Fennel and garlic would be my kind of sauna smell. A twinning of summer´s scents.

A large carrot. Peeled and fine diced into the smallest of cubes. I have shed layers of onion, sawn, sliced and chopped it into a similar size. And practically shaved the celery strips to join them. I have resisted garlic given the pungency of my sausages. My knife, my closest friend in the kitchen, making easy work of this sofrito.

Oil. Olive green and smelling of grass and pepper, it shimmers in the pan. I add the vegetables. The sizzling and spitting louder than a chorus of blackbirds. I turn the gas down, shower it with salt and toss the pan, flicking the vegetables over. Coating them in oil like a sunbather on the beach. I wait for the crunchy to become supple and translucent.

There are a couple of parcels on the counter. It is not my birthday. I unfurl them to reveal two types of mince: pork and beef in wax lined paper. I turn up the heat, shake and riddle the frying pan to even out the mix before sprinkling in the mince to loosen the clumps. My right hand performs this task more efficiently than the left. Ambidextrousness is not my forte. Two flat topped salad spoons help mix the meat and vegetables. Help cook the mince quickly and evenly. My belly distended to hold the pan in place. To stop it sliding from the hob surface.

A good squeeze. A big squeeze of tomato paste. Turning the sauce bloody in colour. I loosen it up with a coarse red wine, a tannic teeth, jaw clenching brew. Two laurels. Some pepper and then top the ragu with chicken stock. I put on a lid. Turn down the heat and walk on to the next part of this project.

The flour, piled on the surface, holed in the centre, holds eggs. Two fingers fork-like stir. Breaking the yolks. Drawing in the flour and creating, first, rags then a more dough like mound. I knead the dough for the final part wrapping it up, placing it in the fridge to let the proteins stretch. To settle. I check on my ragu. A quick stir to ensure that it does not stick.

This is a traditional dish. My machine, my Bugatti of a pasta roller, stays dusty underneath the counter. No handle turning here. No pushing through the pasta, like clothes in a mangle. Instead, I weald a marble rolling pin. Heavy and cold. A murderous weapon in the wrong hands. I flour the surface and unwrap the pasta, readying myself for the hardest part of the dish.

Bang. Bang. Bang. Holding both ends, I slam the marble rolling pin down onto the dough. One turn. Bang. Bang. Bang. I repeat this process until the pasta dough gets into shape. Squaring it. The marble weighted roller now moves forward one way. I turn the dough again. Another roll. Then the other way. Scattering the flour to prevent it sticking. The marble, cool in this hot weather, thins out the pasta. I am forming a rectangle. More rolling in one direction than the other. No rolling inwards, always away. More control. A rough sheet spreads out on the work surface in front of me. Virtually see through, I carefully lift it up and hang it over the back of a chair to dry out a little. To become slightly sandy to the touch. I am exhausted. No wonder the local women have bigger arms than me. I gulp water to help cool myself down.

The ragu quietly bubbles on a hob corner. Another stir. No sticking. No licking. I strain to take a gratin dish from a cupboard shelf. An awkward angle. I did not put it there. It is deep and rectangular and will hold the meal I am making quite happily. It is also heavy cast iron. It will help with the baking of the meal. With my two forefingers and thumb I pinch a large knob of butter from a glass dish. An heirloom of sorts. A domed ridged lid and a base with a cow image that slowly emerges as the butter diminishes in size indicates an age that predates me. I generously smear the butter all over the inside of the gratin dish. Every inch. The corners. Base. Sides. No ungreased patches. My greasy fingers empty.   

I return to the pasta sheet. I lay it out on the still floured surface width ways. With my knife, still my closest friend, I have not cut myself, I slice the edges to make neat the ends. The sausage meat squeezed and squelched between my fingers. Smoothed. I start to spread the aromatic meat over the sheet of pasta. Easing and persuading it. Flattening it. Trying not to tear the pasta underneath. It is a quilt of colour.

Taking the end nearest to me I flip up the pasta and roll it over the meat. Tightly. Evenly. Rolling over itself a couple of times. A spiral of speckled pink contrasting with the pale yellow of the pasta. Working from the right, I take the knife and slice the roll into discs an inch thick. Setting each one just behind on the surface. Moving slowly down towards the left end. The sharpness of the blade preventing me crushing the delicate discs.

Bechamel. Milk. Flour. Butter. It does not seem very appealing, but that almost flavourless combination is a clean canvas for broad brushstrokes of flavours. It becomes a glossy sauce that enriches a dish. My two pans, one empty, one full, await my artistry. The full one is scalded milk. Heated milk. Small bubbles in the milk at the sides of the pan give evidence that it is the right temperature. I pinch more butter from the antique dish and place it in the empty pan. It melts to the point of sizzling before I heap some in some flour from a dented metal serving spoon. I am eyeballing this; you may have noticed. With a whisk I stir it around until the flour tints a little. Then slowly I ladle some of the hot milk into the pan. The hiss is satisfyingly loud. I start beating the contents. The first ladle splits the floury mix. The next pulls it together. The following one starts to reveal the makings of the sauce. I pour the rest of the milk in and stir. Watching it slowly thicken as it starts to bubble. It only takes a few minutes for the consistency to be just right. I generously pepper it. My pepper mill, wood, comedy sized, almost stealing the moment. I do not want any other flavours to diminish the ragu and sausages. I did not say it would be entirely authentic.

I take a spoon of the bechamel, pouring it into the bottom of the gratin dish. Spreading it out until the base is covered with the finest of layers of silky white sauce. With the utmost care, I place the cut discs of sausage and pasta onto it. Flat side up. One by one. Side by side. They are a tight fit. Why there is always one left I will never know. Odd numbered slicing means even numbered slices.

The ragu has reduced. Thickened. Intensified. The aroma: meaty sour, tomato sweet. It moves idly as I tilt the Dutch oven. I pour the contents over the discs with a ladle. Covering the discs individually. One ladle per disc. The bechamel, the remainder, slowly pours out from the pan, my spatula encouraging it, ushering it from the pan, the contents spread in waves that need to be tamed. I ease and flatten the white sauce with the spatula´s edge. The dish is almost full. Almost complete.

I draw out my grater. A wide surfaced, handheld kitchen tool. From the fridge, foil wrapped, waxed paper wrapped, I bring out the Parmigiano Reggiano. Another Italian substitute. Tool left, cheese right. Or vice versa. I start to rub. The two Cha-cha-cha over the bechamel, shedding flakes and flakes of salty, nutty flavour. Their dance could go on and on, but my arms are getting sore and there was never any music. Once again, I pinch some butter. Two fingers and thumb. Smaller knobs. Pinch. Scatter. Pinch. Scatter. Some pepper from the comedic mill and it is ready to bake in the oven.

Time has passed as I remove the dish from the oven, setting it aside to rest. The bubbling browned cheese and bechamel sauce too volcanic to dive straight in. I let the room fill with the aromas of hearty cooking. The garlic pungency from the sausage almost undiminished. I roughly tear some leaves from a lettuce, dropping them into a bowl. Their pale green stalks and red tips giving colour to what would otherwise be a dull side dish. In a small jar I pour some white wine vinegar, mixing it with a little salt. I make a swirling motion to dissolve the crystals before adding oil. Grassy, peppery oil. Lid on I shake vigorously. Three. Four. Five shakes. Lid off. I run the vinaigrette over the lettuce. Just coating it. Covering it. Not drowning it. Tossing it through with my fingers. The acidity will cut through any richness.

My plate, warmed, sits beside the gratin dish. With a fish slice I make cuts into the crusty surface. Plunging it down through the sauce, through the ragu, to catch a coin or two. The pasta coins buried treasure under the weighty richness of the rest of the dish. A secret cache to be discovered in the first bite. A meal supposedly based on the discovery of roman treasure. I suspect that there are as many legends as there are variations to this island´s version of the Italian dish: dollari. I cautiously lift out a portion and seat it on the plate. I watch the contents spread out slowly. Fill the plate. I wait for the steam to dissipate. To cool further. I pour a glass of wine, chilled and rose coloured, and stare at the horizon as the sun starts to disappear. Memories take me to the warm summer nights in Porto Vecchio, the time when I first tasted this meal. It is true. I sometimes daydream.  

Baby It´s Cold Outside…

I have beef. A classic dish, you may think. But I am minded for a different, underrated comfort. A couple in front of me at the butcher´s counter giving me inspiration for what to cook. It will be as hearty as it is unhealthy. Watch out.

I turn the oven on and search for my ingredients, my utensils and my pans. Knives. Tongs. Spatula. Everything. Lining them out on one work surface. An armoury of equipment ready for a battle. The fridge light flickering like a neon sign as I remember to get another ingredient out. On. Off. On. Off. I am ready.  

Cow-Cow Boogie…

Dripping, the bovine ointment to dishes, smokes in the frying pan as I hold it over the cooker´s flame, swirling the shimmering fat around the base so there is no part uncovered. Normally I oil the meat first and add it to a dry pan but today I must lean the other way. The big chunks, room temperature, a handful at a time, sizzle and hiss as they hit the fat. I sprinkle sea salt and wait for the meat to give itself up from the pan´s surface. The seared side a woody, nutty brown. A man called Louis Camille Maillard described caramelisation in 1912 when he watched the reaction of amino acids and sugars change the flavour and composition of the meat as it cooked. Fascinating. I bet he was thin.  

With my tongs, I turn each cube over. Turn each cube around. Carefully spacing the meat so that it does not steam. Does not become chewy. Rubbery. I repeat the process. Over. Around. Over. Around. Every handful, until all the meat is cooked. The pieces placed in a Dutch oven. The frying pan is set aside to cool a little while I chop. The remaining fat poured into a dish for later.

And The Tears Flowed Like Wine…

My knife is sharp enough to shave with. I refrain. I am slicing onions. Onions, sensuous vegetables, alluring alliums, they can shed their layers like Salome. I discard the crisp tan coloured parchment, removing the outer skin, then top and tail them. I halve them and work quickly with the knife to create thin half-moons, Selenic slices. I am only halfway through when the tears begin. Within seconds I am working blind. My clawed fingers preventing bloodshed. The slicing complete, my eyes puffy and sore. I am very emotional.

I put olive oil into the frying pan and return it to the hob. Any dripping residue will help the flavour, but I resist the urge to overwhelm the palate and the arteries with more fat. The warmth turns to heat, and the slices start to sizzle. I lower the setting and sprinkle sea salt onto the onion to help break it down. Low heat and the caustic hit of sodium will render the onion translucent, pearlescent. I do not want crisp slices. This takes care. This takes time. A glacial, clock ticking, patience testing wait. They will be placed amongst the meat pieces awaiting the flavourings.

That´s The Way It Is…

Garlic cloves, the parchment flurrying from the bulb like feathers from a burst pillow. Well, not so much. I take four plump cloves, cut off the root and remove the skin. Slowly, I grate them on a fine bladed plane. The perfume adds to the kitchen´s nasal notes. A seductive small mound awaiting the onions´ completion. I set aside a small amount to be used for the finale. A crowning glory.

The Frim Fram Sauce…

I prepare a paste. A mix of flavours and colours to add to the senses. I am an artist stirring his paints. My paint, the sauce. My easel, the plate. Into a small bowl, I tap some sugar, soft dark sugar, a rich, toffee scent teasing the nose. Vinegar is poured over it to dissolve the dark crystals. Cider vinegar? White wine vinegar? No! It has to be malt vinegar. The earthy, oaty, creamy smelling, sharp, snappy liquid is the only thing for this recipe. It is also the only thing for chunk-chip style fries, I might add. Strangely, both pommes frites and this dish derive from the same region. Yes, the French lied.

I dollop in, as that is all that you can do, tomato paste. Its thick puree adding another dimension of flavour. Dijon mustard. The best. An ochre colour swirled into the tomato. A Daliesque swirling, melting Spanish flag. My emulsion is done.  

Four or Five Times…

Stock. Beef stock. Glistening beer bottle brown jelly. Jewel like. Are there brown jewels? I try shaking out the jelly only to be confronted by a resistant vacuum that leaves the stock sitting upside down in its container high over the pan. My movements useless to the anti-gravital gel. I pour some hot water into the sink and place the tub in it. The scalding heat will loosen the sides and release the stock. I count for a minute before a second attempt. I raise the tub. I know I can do it... I can do it... I can... I cannot. I return it to the water for another minute. Raising my tub above my head, as if to create more momentum, I shake again. Phup. Phup. Splat. This time the stock lands unceremoniously into the saucepan. The hob lit; the jelly slowly liquefies like ice in a glass.

Smooth Sailing…

The onions, rendered down, golden in colour from the long, slow cook are now ready to join the beef pieces. First, I find some flour. A good heap of the white, ground grain, sprinkled and showered over the allium slices. The heat is raised. The fats and the flour meld as I stir them together. I just need to hear the sizzle, see the flour take on the lightest toasty hue before releasing liquid heaven into the pan.

Beer? No. Trappist beer. Brewed by a monastical order. Consumed with a religious fervour by those who love it. Intensely strong, malty and deep in flavour. Darker than night and denser than a London fog. This will complement the sauce´s flavours. The fizz as it hits the pan. The foam, rising then dissipating into the roux of flour and oils. I scrape all the flavourings on the base of the pan, stirring rapidly. Nothing must be wasted. The proteins in the flour puff up. Thickening. This dish needs a sticky, comforting coating to the beef.

Stairway to the Stars…

Steam swirls and waves in ghoulish spirals above the surface. The stock is now ready. I gently add some of it to the frying pan, loosening up the floury onion mix before pouring the contents into the Dutch oven to join the beef. The remaining stock poured in, I garnish the cloudy dark liquid with a sprig of thyme, before placing a lid firmly on top and surrendering the stew to the oven.      

A Tisket, A Tasket…

Bread. A Baguette where ginger spiced bread is more traditional. I cut it up into discs. Not too fresh, it needs to absorb the beery juices underneath but remain firm, solid on top. A half crouton if you like. The crust´s crumbs spread like sawdust on the surface of my kitchen, as I slice. It is thick. I scoop the dust with one hand, placing them in a plastic tub for the birds to enjoy in the morning.

Like a bird myself, I pinch-pick the leaves slowly off a twig of thyme. My forefinger and thumb feel meditative relief from the miniscule movements. Pinch. Pull. Toss. I could use the back of a knife to rub the sprigs, but it is not as neat. Pinch. Pull. Toss. They drop into another small bowl. My fingers smell delightfully herbaceous, but I do not have the luxury of wearing it for long.

A hearty amount of Dijon mustard is dropped in. More mustard? Yes. You can never have too much. Can you? To that I add some gruyere cheese. A soft, nutty, creamy cheese that easily melts when heated. Fine sprinkles flutter into the bowl. The small portion of saved garlic is stirred into the mix and a drop of olive oil to loosen it up. It is ready to spread.

I spoon a portion of the mustard sauce onto a roundlet of bread, dropping it dead centre onto the bready disc. Then using the back of the teaspoon, I carefully spread it with widening circles until the white of the bread is barely visible. I want to create a cobble effect with the discs. A sauce mounded toasty ridged cobble. I repeat this. Over and over. Until enough are done.  

A Sunday kind of love…

The stew comes out of the oven. I pause. My glasses are utterly steamed up. Ironic that while I am frozen the pot is bubbling. With the deftness and skill of a premier league footballer, I close the oven door with my foot. The steam slowly dissipating, revealing anew my kitchen, I can place the Dutch oven onto the work surface, lifting the lid to reveal the sticky, dark stew.

The bread pieces I arrange in a rosette on the surface of the steaming stew, mustard side up. They will act as a crust, sealing in the remaining juices, absorbing some. Back in the oven, lid free, I wait for the bread to become the promised croutons. The cheese to melt on them. The mustard to bubble on them. The garlic and thyme to permeate them.  

Carbonade de Boeuf a la Flamande. My wide, deep bowl, it cannot be an ordinary plate, warmed through, anticipates the meal. The stew has sat resting for a few minutes to settle. I use a large spoon to lift off the crust of crouton. The mustard sauce has spread more than I thought it would. The finest web of molten dairy clings to the each of the neighbouring slices as I lift a couple at the same time. Reluctant to separate. A rush of steam accompanied by the sweet and sour aromas of the stock, meat, beer, vinegar and thyme, fill my side of the kitchen.

No vegetables. No potatoes.  No accompaniment. I simply ladle cubes of beef into the bowl, an extra scoop of sauce, then place a couple of cheesy-mustard croutons, propped to the side.

I need nothing else. Well, maybe a beer.   

Saharan sand has dusted the trees with a cocoa coating, a finger-swipe layer of earth, turning green leaves brown. Nature’s attack sparks my feeding needs. Chocolate earth. Chocolate mud. Chocolate flurries. Chocolate powder. You will see.

I have two whisks, four bowls, some spatulas, sieves and spoons, and various ingredients placed behind. Tools to the engineer. An assembly line as organised as I am chaotic. No pans, no oven. I am not cooking, although I have seen it done in part over a hot pan. Save energy people, this is a strong-arm event.

Bowl one.

I pour the bubbling contents of my Bialetti nonchalantly into a bowl to cool, too cool, as if caring was unimportant. It isn’t. I do. The clear Pyrex its bottom scratched from use tints tan. The unbunging plop sound of a cork and glug as the coffee liquor is released into the muddy liquid. Sweetening it. Fortifying it. I do like coffee. At the right time and in its place.

Alcoholic steam thrills the nostrils and relaxes the atmosphere. This is real coffee. Real coffee liquor. As a child Camp Coffee, a British brand of flavouring with a colonial Raj styled label, ruled coffee cakes. I did not enjoy coffee flavoured food until I was an adult when real coffee beans were used in cooking. No Camp Coffee here. Nothing camp in my deserts.

Bowl two.

I take the coolest, freshest of eggs. Another shade of brown. A crumpled gash, a Halloween pumpkin´s smile, in its brittle shell from my light tap. A jug beneath my hands, I ease the shell in two. Pouring out as much white as I can. The yellow sac must not break on the calcific crust as I slowly juggle the yolk into each half. Left. Right. Left. Right. Until the once captive yolk is completely freed from the viscous fluid. It drops into the bowl, a Cornish ware white and sky-blue bowl, striped on the outside, brilliant white on the inside. I repeat this three more times.

The yolks sit centred together like the holes of a button. I lift a storage jar high as sugar tumbles out over them. A waterfall of sweetness. A whisk, smaller than the twelve looped monster next to it, is ready for its arduous task of turning sugar and egg into a sticky, pale paste, my arm at the end of it. The friction created by the sugar crystals should “cook” the yolks. I start the circular motion.

I cradle the bowl as I whisk the mix, holding it tight. Tighter. My arm tiring from the beating process. I place the bowl on top of a tea towel on the surface, to ease the ache. I swap hands. The effect is clumsier and slower, but I get respite. I place the bowl back against my ribs and use the slightly rested arm again. My muscles tiring from the beating process. I put the bowl down. Lift it up. Swap hands. Stop. Pause. Mop my brow. The fire running up from fingers to shoulder must be cooking the egg mix, right? It is nearly there. Up. Down. Sideways. I howl. I scream. It should not feel like this, I go to the gym. Liquid is pouring from me. I stop. I use the age-old method of writing my name in the sticky mix with the tip of the whisk. I count to five. It stays until seven. I am done.  

I try to open a tub of mascarpone cheese. I can flick off the plastic top but struggle with the neat lipped tab that pulls off the foil underneath; the arm, still jelly. The contents drop in one lump onto the paste. Tentatively stirring again. Slowly. Carefully. Barely a bicep protest. The egg mix quickly melds with the creamy cheese. The white, silky sheen disappearing as egg and cheese become a rich custard. The slightest of shimmies with the whisk to get rid of stubborn white clumps. I move on.

Bowl three.

I pause to make myself a cup of tea. It is late afternoon. I have rituals. I stare into space as the orange perfumed black tea infusion takes me out of the kitchen to another place. Bergamot is Italian, so is this desert.

Pouring cream, coating the sides of the bowl as it rides up one side, then the other before settling down at the bottom of the bowl, breaks me out of my day dreaming. I put the carton down, tap it, wait, then tilt out the last droplets. So rich the glossy cream it is reluctant to let go. The bowl, another heirloom, Cole and Mason, buff and ivory. Cracked glaze hinting at its age.  

Another task, another whisk. I hit the loops on the surface and hold the handle down piano tuner style to hear the jarring notes that come out. Every time. Another ritual.

A tablespoon of powdered sugar is sifted, shaken. The particles perceptibly sit on the cream´s surface waiting to be incorporated. Whipped cream without a hint of sugar can taste cheesy, sour, distracting from the overall pleasure of whatever dish it belongs to. Admittedly, this is already a sweet desert. But. I. Do. Not. Take. Risks.

I begin the whisking (the arm giving me a warning twinge). The liquid sloops around, slowly starting to thicken. Slowly forming a lightly skinned ripple. The whisk, my twelve-loop super whisk, quickly changing that ripple to a soft standing cream. Delicate peaks that barely turn on themselves. I stop before it seizes completely. Before it becomes a soft crumbly mass.  

 Bowl four.

This the final flourish, those egg whites have been waiting patiently. Warming to their optimum potential. It is their turn. I pour them into a copper bowl, its brilliant burnt orange patina ironically cleaned with an egg white and salt mixture. No cleaning here with these whites. I start with the smaller whisk, cleaned, working to form the froth, a frog spawny, big bubbled, half-set froth. I add a heaped spoonful of sugar. More sugar. This is a desert; you cannot avoid the epic sweetness. The sugar will turn frothy eggs to a white, silken, uncooked, desirable soft peaked joy. As with the yolks, it will “cook” the egg.

At cookery school, we had a class on sugar. Meringues. I was asked if I liked the crisp, gooey centred treats. I said I did not have a sweet tooth. I was caught, child-like, my mouth, chin and cheeks covered in the raw concoction. I lied. I lied because I don´t like sugary things. Because, for me, sugary things are addictive. One nibble becomes a thousand more. Meringues. Chocolate. Candy coated confections. I. Cannot. Stop.

With a large metal spoon, the whipped white mousse is folded into the cream. Figures of eight like an ice skater in practice, until hen merges with heifer. An enriched, luxuriant filling.  

The dish.

I have removed a clear, cut glass, square dish from the dresser. An Edwardian treasure rarely seen. It´s angles and bias cuts will give a kaleidoscopic sparkle to this sweet, moreish desert. Teasing the eyes into seeing beyond what is, in effect, beige food. The original desert in Le Bicchiere, Treviso, in 1969, was round. I hold dearly to tradition. But not that dearly.

The rustling plastic wrapping of Savoiardi biscuits being removed shatters a reverential moment to the inventors of this dish. Brittle and crumbly they snap easily. I bring the dish towards the coffee, now cold. I take a ladyfinger and dip it in the liquid, flip it over and push it down again. The need for speediness is vital. The biscuit can turn from a cockily bobbing crust to mush in seconds. One bob a second each side is enough. I place this biscuit in the corner of the dish and make a brown liquor baptism of the next one. And the next. And the next. The temptation not to lick my fingers becoming more and more difficult. I work from the outside in so that broken biscuits can fill any ill-fitting spaces in the middle and remain unseen. The base layer is done.

The mascarpone custard pours from the Cornish ware bowl over the soaked ladyfingers. The alcoholic coffee aroma slightly smothered by the creamy smell. Using a silicone spatula, I even it out, the tool´s colour, a narcissus yellow overwhelming the yolks´ own shade.

The just whipped meringue cream is dolloped on with the large metal spoon, then spread, carefully, delicately. The layers need to remain separate. They need to be identifiable when served.

Layer one is done. I pause. The dish is turned around, so the biscuits can sit in a crisscrossed direction to the first layer. I repeat the process. Dunking. Laying. Evening. Spreading.

Pick me up.

A spatula glides along the top of the desert. Forcing flatness. No ripples. No waves. No lumps, bumps, dips or pits. No.

On a saucer I fill a confectioner´s sieve with chocolate powder, carefully lifting it over the desert. Although my hands shake enough with the pressure to evenly coat the surface, the lightest of taps from the knife in my other hand releases a cocoa flurry as it turns white to brown.

Some chefs grate chocolate bars, the tiniest of shaved curls. Some chefs add espresso powder to the cocoa dusting, emphasising the coffee flavours. I think there is enough for the palate to play with in mine.

I transfer the dish to the fridge to settle. To meld. To let flavours merge. In a couple of hours, three hours, maybe four, it will become the highlight of my meal. A course, as rich as it is filling. Served on a saucer sized plate. Only a neat, small portion is necessary... A Tiramisu.

Granite. Speckled black, solid, cold. Its ergonomic shape, turning the ominous sensuous, appeals to my senses. The pestle and mortar anticipate my deft hands. The pestle, as heavy as the mortar is solid, waits to crush, to pound, to pulp. I lift them to the kitchen´s work surface with some ease. I go to the gym!

Basil. While the bunched pale green stems sit coolly in an enamel jug in the corner, they fill the kitchen with the sweetest of aromas. I do not take delight in plucking each and every leaf, even though my nose flares with the delicious perfume, nor leaving sad spears for discarding. A naked still life. The destruction is not wanton.

A singular clove of garlic, plump and rose coloured is placed under the heel of my hand. I force it down, feeling it give, feeling the skin split and the scented oil dab my skin. My vegetable knife, small and sharp, trims the root, and the parchment is pulled away. The clove is set aside.

The fizz of the match. The whoomph as the gas takes. I pour a handful of pine nuts from a jar into a small frying pan and start rolling them around as the heat increases. They only need to warm through. To release their perfume, their oils. They give a particular creamy, toasty smell. I tilt the frying pan to let them fall into the cooling granite mortar. I pick the rest of them up from the surface, I need a frying pan with a milk pan´s lip (™!).  

I open the fridge door and stare at the top shelf. Behind the confitures, the chutneys, the bread, an upturned lemon on a saucer, oh, and the glass butter dish, the butter slightly crusted with crumbs, not me. Behind all of that, wrapped in waxed paper and foil, is Parmigiano Reggiano. Cheese. Waxy, crumbly, saline, it promises enrichment. I find a fine grater and slowly slide the wedge downwards, flurries of flavour float onto a board.

Crystalline kosher salt, a good pinch, not a greedy one, is thrown in from above into the mortar. Sea salt is like confetti, it must be scattered not sprinkled, shaken, or poured. Well, that is my opinion. It will cut, lacerate, and preserve the colour of the leaves. Kosher salt is not kosher but is used in the koshering process to draw out the last of the blood and impurities, hence the name. But I digress.  

In goes the garlic. In goes half the basil. The pestle melds to my hand as I start to pound, rotate, and grind the contents. I could put everything into a blender, but there is nothing more satisfying than the steady rhythmic movement that comes from this method. Rotate and grind people. Rotate and grind.

The cheese I add with a few more leaves, layering and mixing, churning and pulsing. Adding a little more bit by bit. Finally, I reach out for a bottle of olive oil. Quality oil. Extra virgin oil. Grassy, peppery, green-amber liquid drizzles into the mixture, changing the motion sound into a glop-glop-glopping foot in mud echo. Unctuous, emerald, glistening, flecked with pine nuts and cheese, the pesto is ready. I pour it into a jar carefully, ensuring every last drop is saved. With a marker pen I label the jar “pesto”. Who could guess?

A quick wipe of the surface and the next stage will begin.

Flour. A conical pile in the centre of my work surface. Brilliant, bleached, super fine, white flour. Doppio “O”. My index finger, pushed into the top, makes minute circular movements creating a hole in the centre of the mound. I have already taken a large egg out of the fridge door. I crack the shell on the edge of the work surface and thumb it open. It drops dead centre into the flour. The effect is a white mountain with golden lava. Stromboli. The tiniest splash of oil and I knife the yolk. Swirling the yellow into the glassy clear white, the glassy white into the amber green. Then flip the flour into the egg, working around the edge, working it inwards. The mix slowly turning liquid solid. My hands come in at the point where the knife goes. I am bringing it all together with my palms. I have, in minutes, a dough. Pale yellow. Moist. It needs to rest. I wrap it in plastic and put it in the fridge. At the front. On a lower shelf. Away from the jams, bread, and butter.   

Eggs. A chef in Rome shared the secret of pasta to me. The daffodil yellow pasta in his kitchen came from the eggs of Livornese hens. Their yolks so rich in colour it was as if he had added turmeric, saffron, food colouring. So rich in colour, I needed sunglasses. I don´t have that breed available to me. My pasta is as pale as a Scandinavian on a Greek beach.

From under the work bench, at the back of a cupboard, I get it out. The contraption. The machine. Its box is covered with dust and a dark, once used, web. But the machine inside glistens. Its chrome skin sparkling in the sun´s light. In technical parlance there is a big bit with rolly things, a handle thing and a grippy thing. Fortunately, I taught pasta making at food festivals. I know what to do.

I bring the pasta maker to the edge of the surface and use the clamp to set it in place. I insert the handle into the roller´s socket and turn the thickness adjustor to maximum. A floured surface in front of the pasta machine. I bring out the rested pasta. Using my hands, I shape it appropriately to feed into the rollers. One feed. The handle rotates. A sheet of pasta rushes out. Click. I turn the adjustor to reduce the thickness. Next feed. Rotate. Click. Feed again. Quick. Click. Click. Click. The handle turning reminding me of a laundry mangle. But the sheet is that of pasta not linen.

It is, after several passes, a long, thin, stretch of pasta that sits ruched on the surface. Thin enough, almost, to see my hand through it. I flour it and fold it gently. Using my knife, I trim the sides, and then slice ribbons. I toss them in flour and hang them over a string line one end knotted to a cupboard handle the other the fridge door, to dry a little.

Tagliatelle. I know. I know. It. Is. Not. Trofie. The only pasta shape for pesto. The pasta only from Liguria. Only, I am not there.

In San Remo, the casino town in Liguria. I had my first genuine Pesto alla Genovese. It was transformational. Life changing. What had been an ordinarily nice, simple, dish, a pauper´s pasta plate fit for students, became a belly filling feast. A hearty meal. Chips in.

I won´t make it any other way.

Green beans. French beans. Haricot vert. String Beans. Beans. Beans. Beans. Long, round, thin. Holding the bunch in my hand, I trim the tails, discarding the rooty ends. The tips, their curled, come-here finger ends stay. They add a pleasing visual element to the dish. My knife cuts them into bite sized lengths.

I peel some potatoes. They are small and waxy. Creamy in colour, creamy in flavour. The knife cuts them into slices as thick as the pasta is wide.

I have a pan of salted water ready to go. It is boiling vigorously waiting for the vegetables. Waiting for the pasta. Waiting. Steaming. The vegetables go in together. If I were braver, I would put everything in at once. The pasta, potatoes and beans. But I am not.

I knife a potato, softly testing the resistance of the starchy slice. I chew a bean, hot and gently giving to the bite. The anticipation of things coming together at the right time, the perfect moment, is thrilling as it is worrying. I smile at my fortune that this time they are done. Together.

More salt in the water. I bring it back up to a rolling boil ready for the pasta. The hanging tagliatelle that has formed the slightest sandy, leathery feel. I gather it together and toss it into the bubbling liquid. Tongs stirring to prevent them sticking together.

An urgency. A necessity to move quickly. Timing is everything now. Verdi´s Kyrie Eleison, playing in the background, adds a curiously furious intensity.

Pasta. The sauté pan is on. A chunk of butter. Enriching. A drop of oil to prevent it burning. In some parts of Liguria, the butter is already in the pesto. I never knew. The vegetables go in. Sizzling sounds as I lift the pan, a flicking wrist action, the toss of a chef, the contents, mixing, heating. I am careful not to break the potato slices. I get a jug to save some starchy water before draining, shaking and tonging the pasta into the pan.

I reach for the jar, the jar labelled “pesto”, the jar with pesto in. I spoon some into the sauté pan. Pouring some starchy water over the pesto to loosen the sauce. Swirling motions and another light toss. Off the heat and into a heated bowl, the tongs helping to shape the pile into something more appealing than green gloop. Cheese. Grated and sprinkled on top. Pepper. You want pepper? I ignore the mess. The pots, the pans, the crumb scattered surfaces. They are for later. I sit hunched over my bowl ready to devour. Pesto alla Genovese.  

Spring. The evening chill, the moment the sun seems to lose its heat. Springtime hearty food fills my stomach and soul while I await the summer yet to arrive. With every mouthful, my mind reaches back to memories of Italy; my head in the northernmost corner of the Mediterranean; my heart amongst seaweed, rocky waters, and slow lapping waves of Portofino. But my mouth, my mouth is here in this small piece of Italy I have in a bowl.