Into the Guilt Gutter

20th November 2011 Sunday

I leave for an impromptu breakfast coffee with a dear friend in town. My husband waves me off. He says he’s envious - makes him think he doesn’t have any friends. Not true but I feel my guilt - abandoning him on a Sunday morning - stabbing me in my gut. But I’m learning to breathe it out, discard it in the guilt gutter - like a piece of litter - as I walk to the car - trusting in a bigger plan - for both of us.

He' s still at the allotment when I get home. I start making lunch. I’m suddenly tired of the relentless march of gorgeous, English, home grown parsnips, carrots, Jerusalem artichokes and squashes marching through my November kitchen. I want Italian. I want the hint of summer but the comfort of winter. Risotto of course. But I must rely on the store cupboard. No porcini mushrooms or celery in the fridge so I make a sofrito from chopped white onions and leeks, garlic and a handful of sundried tomatoes using ladlefuls of the soaking stock to stir into the half packet of Arborio rice in the pan. Thank goodness I had some left from last month’s rice pudding fest.

The sun-dried tomatoes make the risotto look as murky as a muddy Devon lane at dusk. Emerald chopped parsley, parmesan and a slab of butter lift it to the heights of deliciousness and we sit at our kitchen table, loving our Italian Sunday lunch. My guilt dispelled for now.

This time next week I will be in Portugal with my two dear sisters. I'm looking for ways to re-frame it - I'm only leaving my husband for seven days if I look at it through my abandonment glasses. Instead of my opportunity glasses - my love glasses.