Back Home and Bandaged

11th October 2011 Tuesday

Back from the tropical sizzling heat and cloud topped mountains of Madeira.

Today I inhabit the kitchen - cooking to try and bring myself home - to slip into the familiar mantle of the life I left behind a few weeks ago. I make pear and cardamon chutney with the few precious pears that didn’t go brown and mushy in their centres - I thought they would keep in the shed but it must have been too hot here too.

I roast two trays of bright red tomatoes - six different varieties that my husband picked in the greenhouse. He sits at the counter, his sprained ankle bandaged up and swollen, and shells borlotti beans while the two sweetcorn cobs he brought back from the allotment this afternoon bubble away on the hob. The dark gold kernels look dry and tough, the outer Ieaves like pale crackly parchment. But I don’t want to waste them. I mash potatoes with stock and olive oil and steam the last of the asparagus peas to have with the lemon zested mackerel fillets in the oven.

A huge Waitrose store, five minutes away the house, has opened in our absence. I am going to have to ration myself there.But I couldn’t resist the fish counter yesterday and bought three speckled brown trout for the freezer.

I’ve been thinking about disappointment - how we couldn’t go on the Levada walks in Madeira we wanted to because of my husband’s hurt ankle. And how you can only be disappointed if you think it should be different from how it is. That suffering comes from “arguing with reality” as Byron Katie says.

I notice how much arguing I do in my head. As habitual as breathing. But how it restricts my heart - like a tight bandage.