I looked in the fridge, for something for lunch. It has not been a fun morning – in fact the whole week seems at this jaundiced moment to be a bit shitty, though no doubt my opinion will be transformed when Dilly has the baby. She is still labourless right now, two days late, thank you for asking.
I found my hand curling round the bottle of rosé that was started last night. I hesitated. I remembered the funeral I am playing the organ for this afternoon. “Just the one glass then,” I said aloud.
Nothing I fancied to eat. I went to the freezer. No pizza. Plenty of raw (and frozen) ingredients, but nothing I wanted.
I am eating pretzels and drinking wine. I feel better. This is a little worrying. The only consolation here is that I ate three figs while I was thinking about it.
My usual comfort food is risotto. I love making risotto. The slow and patient cooking of it soothes me, even as I wait to taste its creamy texture. I like it a bit loose and sloppy, but just al dente – I rarely order it in a restaurant as I am ready to be critical of someone else’s taste; too much or too little cooked and I am disappointed.
However, today I am cooking other dishes (for Saturday, I’ve no other opportunity) and have not time to relax. Tasty, chewy and yet indulgent. Nothing fits the bill. Salami would do it, but I haven’t got any. Olives, ditto. I sigh. I want another glass of wine. I’d better start cooking again.