Peace Risotto

Sunday 20th February

Day 305

We are making risotto - my nearly Italian niece and I. It’s soothing to be in the brightness of the kitchen with my husband and glasses of pink Prosecco after our journey home in the dark womb of the car sloshing with tears (mine) and sympathy(hers). Earlier even though I tried to be cheerful, everyone knew I was grumpy while we walked through mud rutted fields, and too close to the edge of crumbling red cliffs. My crossness always seeps out like lemon curd from a squashed cake. Sharing it with my sweet niece - her witness - means I can dip below it and taste the sticky layers of grief round my heart.

In the kitchen my husband peels a whole bulb garlic that he grew last summer. The small white cloves scatter on the plate - like pearls - says my niece. And we remember the hundred days of her blog while we take it in turns to stir the risotto in the pan - a bumpy sea speckled with the green of leeks and courgettes.

‘It’s ready now,’ says my niece, sprinkling in parsley and parmesan shavings. ‘In fact it’s perfect.’

‘How do you know?’

‘Because it’s "come un’onda" - like a wave. My Italian friend taught me this.’

And as she swirls the wooden spoon through the creamy slick, for a second, it holds its shape exactly like a wave. And tastes like peace.