Paracetamol Cheese

Sunday 6th March

Day 319

‘What do you want for supper?’

I ask my husband in the car on the way home from our walk where the paths were lined with the fresh green shoots of wild garlic.

What are the options?

I list them for him. He doesn’t seem keen on any of my suggestions.

‘How about a cheese and leek tart?‘ I say.

His face lights up. ‘With prawns’, he says.

The puff pastry defrosts while we sit at the table with a pot of Earl Grey tea and read yesterday’s newspapers splashed with Libya’s pain. Slowly the sun disappears behind the naked branches of the poplar tree.

I fry leeks and mushrooms in butter and stir in a clove of crushed garlic and a field of chopped parsley. I’m inspired by the big white bowl of vegetables my nephew roasted for us yesterday - slippery tomatoes and carrots, courgettes and baby leeks, fragrant with lemony oil, seamed with emerald rocket leaves.

Grating Parmesan for the tart I remember my husband’s question this morning in bed.

‘I’ve been thinking of the names of cheeses,’ he said, ‘what’s that Italian cheese called? I know it starts with P but all I can think of is Paracetamol.’

We both laugh even though it’s not funny really.