a saturday script


Toast with raspberry jam and a cold boiled egg, like we would eat in Turkey, pepper and salt, salt over the left shoulder, eaten on the stoop in the white sunlight. After, read a passage from Kincaid about plant-hunting, thought about the waxy rhododendrons everywhere. A hot black coffee, another, some cucumber. A dressing of toasted sesame oil, oranges and lemons, their juice and their zests, pepper and salt. That dressing on watercress and roquette, with quarter circles of cucumber and halved radishes. Sweet potatoes, big ones, roasted in their jackets a few evenings ago, peeled and mashed with feta and coriander, cannellini beans…dipped into rice and gram flours and fried into little round patties, not uniform by any means. Cooled, their shells becoming a little gritty. With a tahini sauce slipped on at the table, cold from the fridge: more lemons, flesh and rind and juice, lots of garlic. Watched Monty Don together, wrote down to cut the buddleia back hard, and was reminded to try and force the rhubarb. After, put a white tub over its young pink fists and weighed it with a rock. Planted two begonias, moved the hosta, rootbound, just purple prods coming through so far, from a pot to the earth, to the sheltered corner where the daffodils are. A square of sweet chocolate, a tea, a tea, a jug of cold water. Big conchiglioni, softened in boiling water, salt over the left shoulder, par cooked, lukewarm, what was left of the sweet potato fleshy mix spooned into them, singly, with a teaspoon at the kitchen table, by the light of the extractor fan. A cheese sauce, with the end of the cheddar and lots of parmesan, nutmeg, oat milk, flour, butter. Spooned over the shells and baked. (not very good) The last of the Jerusalem artichokes, rinsed and scrubbed over the sink last night, a sharp knife to graze off the roots. Baked then, too, whole in old red wine, with bruised cherries, stone still in, and salt, warmed through again in the oven today, flesh still white like printer paper, shrunken outers. Tried the cherries alone after a break, one by one, savoury now, and still meat-like, holding together. Might have the last few with yogurt (for breakfast?).