I had a terrific tantrum with my dearest husband the other day. He emptied my jar of chicory into the coffee jar, saying ‘it took up too much space’ and ‘it tastes the same anyway’.
It most certainly does not.
He did it, too, after I told him in no uncertain terms that he was not to mix the two, when he suggested it a night prior to the event. He said the result of mixing the two was a creamier coffee, but I begged to differ. Coffee is coffee and chicory is decaffeinated, child-friendly, and the pleasant accompaniment of a cold wintry walk in a flask. When you boil chicory with milk and a little honey, it’s a delicious drink that all members of the family can partake in.
But when you have a jar full of coffee mixed with chicory – it’s an abomination. I can’t do anything with it. I can’t drink it because it’s disgusting and I can’t serve it to my kids because it contains caffeine.
I can’t go out and buy a new jar of chicory because my frugal, non-wasteful nature forbids it, and I can’t buy a new jar of coffee because we HAVE some, even though it is mixed with chicory.
But it wasn’t only that, it was the blatant disrespect of my wishes. He did it just because he wanted one less jar on the shelf, no other reason. That man would happily munch on mashed paper if I served it to him and told him it was food. He eats to live, not the other way around, and does not care for the taste of things, as long as it provides him nourishment and stops him from passing out with hunger. Which he is often close to because that man… forgets to eat. I wish I bloody forgot to eat.
So, when one does not care much for the taste of food, one is not bothered if his coffee is mixed with his chicory, because to him it’s just a hot beverage.
TO ME, it’s an energy-boosting drink on cold dark mornings when I don’t want to haul myself out of bed to serve my family and educate my children. TO ME, it’s a delicious drink I serve to my children to keep us warm when the wind is biting. TO ME… it’s comfort.
I made a spelt loaf for my children yesterday when an unexpected guest popped by. Three people. An adult and two children. They stayed for lunch and we got to chatting, and then it was 5pm, then 6pm and we were still talking away so I eventually said, ‘why don’t you stay for dinner?’
‘Oh no I couldn’t possibly, we have outstayed our welcome!’
‘No no, stay, I insist!’
So they stayed. I opened my fridge door and said ‘let’s do eggs and beans and chips’ – only there weren’t any potatoes to make chips with so in the end we went with a Pakistani classic, rice and dhal.
My guest set about washing the dishes and we chatted some more while I pottered about making the meal.
Red lentils, white basmati rice. Wash both. Soak. Boil the lentils with a bit of chopped ginger and garlic, turmeric and cumin, chilli and salt. Then boil the rice with a dash of oil and a cinnamon stick. Fry the onions in butter until nicely browned and crispy, also add some cumin seeds, chopped garlic, sliced chillis. Pour that hot buttery fried onion right into the boiling lentils so it sizzles beautifully on top, give it a last stir, garnish with coriander.
We served it with rice and yogurt.
And for dessert I hunted through my cupboards, found some dates and almonds and cashews. And a packet of lotus biscuits. Cup of tea. More chatter, children being their noisy, happy selves. Then finally our guest stood up and said, ‘well, we definitely have outstayed our welcome now’, and made their way to the front door.
They didn’t though.
They were so very much wanted and welcome.
In this rushed, hurried world of nine to fives and fives to nines, it was nice for a day to forget rigid plans and schedules, sit back and make rice and lentils with a friend while our kids played together. And fought together. In the winter darkness, it felt good to have the warmth of friends staying unexpectedly for dinner.
But does a heart have feelings? Or is it just the brain projecting?
And why do the most emotive of sensations make themselves felt in the chest?
I don’t know why this photo has such an impact on me.
Something about summer, and roses.
It reminds me of my grandmother. She had a kaleidoscope of roses in her garden, plants all over her home. Silence ringing through rooms, interrupted with the soft tick-tick-tick of a clock, gentle chirping outside, the distant buzz of a lawnmower. Sunlight flooding through tall windows.
Knitting needles, clicking.
One leg crossed, over the other. Face knotted in concentration, but never frowning.
All that hurt in her heart, but always a smile.
All that pain in her body, but always patience.
Now I am going through a very similar physical pain, and I don’t know how she managed to do it. To give so much, so effortlessly, with all that burden on her heart.
So when I came across this photo today, my heart thumped painfully in my chest, probably because my brain told it to.
Because it reminds me of my childhood in her garden, her love and patience and life,
Enveloping me in warm comfort.
She was a mother to her own children, and a mother to their children too. A mother in the deepest, most emotional sense of the word.
And what is lost can never be returned.
The credit for this image goes to this blog on Tumblr.
Pip, I have known you for approximately six years. And forty seven days. And three and a half hours (at the time of writing this).
We met the day I met with my fate. My fate was you, of course. Didn’t you know?
We were both looking at the same teapot. It was yellow and had blue spots on and I remember thinking you had to be a certain kind of person with a certain kind of taste to like such a teapot because let me tell you, it was hideous.
But there was only one of them left and you said, ‘Oh, you have it.’
And I said, ‘Please, no, you have it.’ Because I didn’t even want it in the first place.
And you said, ‘Oh, no, I was only looking. You have it.’
And I said, ‘I wouldn’t be a gentleman if I took it when a young lady has her eye on it. It would be daylight robbery.’
And you snorted and said, ‘Well how about we halfsies it and then share it.’
‘What, like, monthly swaps?’ I asked, ‘or shall we cut it in half?’
‘Sure.’ You were nonchalant. Casual. You even shrugged and that is when I noticed the apple green jacket you are wearing. It was hideous also. (Please don’t hate me. We have discussed the ways colours are worn. And apple green blazers were out of the question. I even made a graph. Please see attached piece of paper for reference.)
‘Well,’ I said very carefully, ‘that then means, of course, that we shall have to swap details.’
‘Let’s buy this thing.’ You picked it up gently and as I reached into my pocket to take out my wallet my elbow jerked yours and it slipped out of your hands and fell down, down down onto the brightly polished John Lewis floors.
We both stared at it.
‘Ah well,’ you said, ‘I was only looking at it because I was curious about something so ugly. Good riddance, I say! I’m Pip. What’s your name?’
I stared at you in pleasant surprise and I felt my lips stretching out my face of their own accord.
‘James.’ I said, and then, ‘let us look for more ugly teapots.’
Of course we had to pay for that ugly yellow polka dot tea pot. It was atrocious. And then for your birthday present a year later I got you a similar teapot which you use for your indoor geraniums. You killed yourself laughing at it and told me I was a money waster because there was no way you would use that for anybody. It could never grace your table.
I remember asking you all wounded, like, ‘What, not even for the reason that it was graced by my hands?’ I was also slightly flirting even though we were firm friends by then, but I could not resist. I can never resist you, Pip.
‘Nope.’ You were very firm.
I am writing to tell you that I want to marry you. I can’t say it to your face because you have beautiful eyes and I know exactly how they will look at me and I will not be able to help myself because I will kiss you and then I will be done for. I know you will be impatient with that and tell me that is nonsense and of course I can help myself but I will not want to. Help myself. At all.
Also I asked my aunt if she read those French books I gave her and she said yes, they were lovely books. You were right. She didn’t read them. Else she would have called me to lecture me horrendously about them. Lovely books indeed. She asks about you a lot and tells me I should marry you quicktimes before you grow too old to have kids.
So back to my fate. You are my fate either way. If you say yes then it will have been a good fate and if you say no I will be broken hearted forever and when I do eventually heal and marry somebody for realsies I will still remember you as the first ever woman who broke my heart. Truly, broke it.
You know love is a strange thing. So strange. I used to think I loved a woman before. I was seventeen. She wasn’t particularly beautiful but I was infatuated by her and loved her to pieces but she always treated me badly. And one day she went too far and I discovered she was sleeping with a right old tramp of a fellow {he was not, he was a respectable LAWYER, but to me in my hurt he was a tramp], but I forgave her. Well I told her I did but I don’t think I really did. Something inside of me snapped that day. She walked on me one too many times. And three miserable months of forced smiles and fake kisses later I met you and the day afterwards she wanted to see me and I called her and I said, ‘I can’t. I can’t do this anymore.’
And when I was with her I thought there could never be anyone else because she was my first love. But it was meagre and ridiculous and pathetic and also desperate. Compared to what I feel about you. I am crazy about you. I look at you and I see my future. And I want to spend all my time with you and walk home from work with you and call you every single day but I stop myself because I don’t want you to get sick of me. I also want to kiss your forehead. It is so gentle and smooth and beautiful.
But see, if we were married I could call you everyday and it wouldn’t be weird, right? I could also kiss your forehead and it would be comfortable.
So, what do you say, Pip?
Yours sincerely and faithfully and truly,
Jim
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This image was generated for me by DALL.E 3 – the latest AI photo-generating software. Ahh me. We no longer need to whip out the watercolours to demonstrate the painted thoughts in our heads.
Ocean Bream 