Croissants or Courgettes

15th July 2012 Sunday

I squash up tiny pieces of greasy raw salmon fillet and the pussy cat licks them off my fingers. Everyone says raw is better than cooked for pussy cats but up till now he’s rejected it. I allow myself a glimmer of hope, a smidgen of relief. I drip drops of flower rememdies on his paws - no other way to get them in him.

‘This croissant is a bit doughy,’ I say to my husband at breakfast.

‘Doughy?’

I explain about the texture of  bread dough.

We had this exact same conversation last time we ate croissants - or courgettes as my husband calls them.

But later we go through pages and pages of the report about our finances and he explains to me in great detail the difference between an ISA and an OEIK. And I know he knows what it all means. It’s been a year this month since he stopped working.

The first few blackcurrants from the allotment. Their juices leak out in the pan - the colour of a deep claret wine. I scrape and push them through a sieve and make a thick puree to swirl through a velvety creamy parfait turning to ice cream in the freezer.

This morning I put the heating on to get the sheets dry. This afternoon we sit on the pebbles at Weston beach with two dear friends and their spotty chestnut brown pointer dog and feel the sun burning our cheeks. Too late to put the washing on the line though.


That's just what this summer is like - unpredictable. The sooner I get used to it the better. Like eating courgettes for breakfast.