Sunday 19th December
Day 242
Two slabs of salmon - hot smoked fillets - are spitting under the grill. A tray of sweet potatoes and Jerusalem artichokes are turning melting soft in the oven. I’m peeling small sprouts - tight curled, hard green balls. I’ll mask their sulphur smell with butter and garlic in the pan. My husband has lit the fire in the sitting room and soon we’ll eat our supper on trays watching Harry Potter on the TV.
A Sunday night as if everything is normal. The pussy cat sleeps on the sofa beside me, a soft curled comma, his world unshaken.
No comments:
Post a Comment