Jul 28
Last night I dreamt of a small kitten, curled up in that space between jaw line and shoulder that was made for cats alone.
And I remember a small orphan tabby that I raised by hand and that adopted me in return and she would sleep in that small space every night, nose pressed into my ear. I remember a beautiful black tom cat in charge of the neighbourhood. I remember the princess, dark and golden eyed, always in trouble, always risking her life, always saving mine, always inventing games, and I remember how she would talk to me and how she died in my arms when I was finally able to see she was only waiting for me to let go. I remember a shy beauty, mistreated, mishandled, that stayed for a while, and she never wanted to be to touched by humans, but she became the princess’ twin shadow until one day she got lost.
I remember my wonderful and funny black and white hunter, one-eyed, but none the worse for it, who sometimes would come running towards me when I called, and sometimes would not, for that is cat law, and I remember how often I waited up for him, until he was safely home, covered in dirt or blood, jumping onto my bed and curling up right next to me, and it is his call I use for the birds. And I remember the biggest heart of all, the fiercely loyal tom cat who would fight cats and dogs and dancing leaves and shadows and who would walk the gardens with me and wait outside for me and I hope you are safe, dear.
And I remember them all, and love them all and when I count there are six of them, even though it always feels like seven. As if I was missing one. As if there was one more name and a cat waiting outside.
Jul 27
Smallville is food for thought. The city is wings.
And I keep wishing I could combine the two, but I’m too tired these days to even think straight, much less make plans for another golden future. I’m out of plans.
And so I concentrate on the task at hand instead, one small task at a time, that’s enough, that’s good enough, and I make scrambled eggs, and wonder how little love seems to go into images of them, and how dry and alien they always look, and all mashed up, and I am so grateful I can still have them, and all I need with them is one small pill, when with most other food it is a handful now, and there should be more tender images of scrambled eggs, I find, and I remember that my sister makes them the same way I do, and how for us this is the only way.
Food is family.
And it’s two eggs, and four or five gentle beatings with a fork, this is not an omelette, and no milk, this is not pancakes, and you add salt later, you want to keep the yellow in breakfast, and you melt a small piece of butter in a frying pan over medium heat and pour in the eggs before the butter turns brown, and you do not stir scrambled eggs, this is not hashed beef you’re making, simply gently move the pan, and slide the eggs around and when they have settled down a little, you gently swirl them around with a fork to make a small nest and that’s it, and that’s all, and this is golden and moist and glistening and perfect and now.
Jul 26
I am not really happy with the texture,
that first batch turned out too much earth mother for my liking, to heavy, too dull, too grounded.
I want crumbly, flaky pastry, feathery light, made with a cool head and a cool heart, pastry should be light enough to fly, pastry needs wings, and so this time I’ll prepare it my way, the oldfashioned way, straight on my old kitchen table, the one with the cold bluish granite slate, the one that came all the way from Norway, the one I turned into a blue tiled fireplace in the contessa stories, all those many moons ago.
But that was then, and this is now, and I find it hard enough to concentrate on one story and one moon at at time, so I forget everything I have read about biscuits recently and throw out all fancy thoughts that are not my own, and I’ll forget about creaming butter and sugar, that is simply not me, and I’ll make the pastry as if it was for a quiche, with ice cold slices of butter, and I leave out the oats this time, and I use just as little sugar as before, but a touch more salt.
For that is the best bit about these biscuits: this unexpected sea-saltiness that makes your mouth water all over again, just when you thought you were safe.
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