Black Ice

Tuesday 21st December

Day 244

Tired of feeling besieged in the house we scrape a pathway through deep clean snow from the front door to the gate, and escape into the town. We join crowds sloshing along pavements splattered with dirty grey slush. I feel panicky in the crush of shoppers and abandon last minute present buying.

Back home I roll out a circle and a wide ribbon of marzipan paste to cover my Christmas cake, damp with brandy, sticky with apricot jam glaze. I bake a tray of mincemeat shortbread but can’t conjure an iota of festiveness. And feel guilty when I snap at my husband who has done nothing; who I think will leave me too soon.

While he unpacks his weird and wonderful ceramic creatures - back from their sojourn in the town gallery - I stir up a risotto - laced with the woodland aroma of dried porcini mushrooms and glutinous with melted parmesan cheese. A savoury comfort which doesn’t touch the black ice river flowing inside me.