I write - with months of sunshine and births and deaths and growth and decay between now and our last letter and all I can remember are snippets of what's happened in that time. That's terrible, and I have resolved not to let weeks slip by without some record of them, or else they are just scritchy etchings on my memory; a sensation; a smudgy vision.
I have three photographs of my grandmother on my wall. Three smiles at three different times. I study them carefully and in two of the pictures she is quite clearly happy. In the most beautiful one though, the smile barely disguises the moments before. I can only make my own story up for her, and how wrong that will most likely be. So, in my view words are the thing. We all write more than we have ever done before perhaps...texting, tweeting, emailing, msn, facebook...hours and hours spent giving each other insights into the moment, but then it's all gone - into the ether, nothing left over. Did you listen to the radio this morning? Van Goughs letters - all however many hundreds of them - have been collected together and put on the internet for all to read. In the end, they are what is left...his art is what we know him for, but his letters will form what we know of him.
So, our Indian Summer has ended. Three weeks of low golden sun and rainlessness. But today the rain has come. There is condensation on the mirrors. I woke up in an off mood. The Today Programme was on the radio so I opened the curtains to let in the light and there was nothing but a sort of pallor that I could look out on but which did not manage to filter into our room at all. The clouds were hanging low like udders, and the trees, still darkly leafed, look bloated and tired. So I trudged from bathroom to bedrooms waking up the children. It isn't cold but the quality of light made me fumble around for my candlewick dressing gown for comfort - it truly is a bed-spread and not a nice thing. I'd left my wellies in the yard overnight so I tipped out the water and poked my bare feet into them trying to tell myself that this was nothing to be drippy about and to think about soldiers in trenches and what their feet had to put up with...but all that did was to bring to mind the giant rats that might have snuggled up in my boots overnight. In the gloom I went to let the chicken out and feed the pigs with Peggy the puppy lolloping along at my side and I had the most fleeting yearning for an extra hour in bed, underfloor heating and a power shower.
The other day I tackled an old pig shed near the house to try and reap a clutch of eggs I'd discovered. I used a strange rake-like implement to try and gently haul them in from the furthest corner and as I did so, feet slightly parted for stability, a Thing the size of a weazel shot between them and then another so that I was dancing on the spot with dread and fear. Dave ran to get his pop-gun and we had a small difference of opinion about trying to point-blank shoot things that move at the speed of light with something that takes several minutes to load and then shoots at a squew. A few days ago one of our hens was in a very poorly way. There was nothing for it but to put it out of its misery and neither of us are at neck-wringing proficiency yet, so Dave said to me, 'Can you just hold the chicken while I shoot it?'...
So, in the pig stye we went back to the rake and in the end we found twenty bad eggs and five giant rats which each had Dave whooping with joy as they scarpered out of the pig stye, through the leaves, straight for me!
This morning my friend Charlotte came to help. She comes on Wednesday and Friday mornings. We drink tea, gossip and work and it doesn't feel like work at all. We only had a little time so we started on the beans, taking down the bean poles, stripping off the beans that can be saved for seed and leaving the roots in the ground for their nitrogenous value. In the next bed we noticed that the sprouts were looking a bit lacey. We searched for caterpillars and found two and then we noticed that many of the sprouts were ready to pick.
I love sprouts. I always liked the idea of them as elfin cabbages when I was a child and can't quite understand why so many people can't stand them. Dave had come home for lunch with a friend and I had Monty off school with a cough. The fridge was beleaguered with nothing much more than a rind of parmesan, a couple of rashers of bacon and half a pot of creme fraiche to hand. Monty asked, 'What's for lunch?' 'Sprouts!' I beamed, and he ran away howling and clutching his stomach. So, with little choice I made the following -
Sprout Pasta (this, I realize is not a good name, but you get the gist)
serves 4; Prep time: 15 mins; cooking time: 15 mins
Ingredients
4 rashers of bacon, thinly sliced
2 cloves of garlic crushed with salt and olive oil
A couple of handfuls of Brussels sprouts cleaned, halved and briefly boiled
4 good handfuls of dried pasta, boiled
Creme fraiche - enough to give a creamy consistency
Grated parmesan
Finely chopped parsley
black pepper
Method
Boil the pasta and at the same time fry the bacon in a little of the garlicky oil. Plunge the sprouts into boiling water for a maximum of 5 minutes. Add the garlic and oil to the bacon pan for just a minute or two and stir so that the garlic cooks but doesn't burn. When the pasta is cooked, drain it well and add to the bacon. Quickly drain the sprouts and add to the bacon pan too. Stirring all together add the creme fraiche, parmesan cheese and parsley. Season with pepper (not salt). Serve immediately in bowls.
Maybe I should think of a more enticing name, but I have to say that Monty asked for it again at supper.
I must go now and think about the next meal. It will involve beetroot.
Much love, V xx
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