Emptiness On My Tongue

Medrohno  - the fruit of the Strawberry tree...

in Portugal they use it mostly to make a perfumed liqueur. Last week we stopped at the side of the road to pick this not at all prickly handful when our dear Portuguese friends took us out for the day. They drove us out to the west coast.....

the wild and windy Atlantic side .....reminding me of  South Africa...

where the cliffs are dotted with wild flowers,

 and these berries - a bit like a white version of a blueberry - which we feasted on as we walked.

 Our friends had packed a wonderful picnic including these little savoury fish cakes...

and we brought along these almond tarts for a snack after

our meander along this beach where one of our friends went swimming....rather him than me. It has to be seriously hot before I'll even consider getting anything other than my toes wet.

Today...

Today I make a stab at some Christmas shopping, join the long queues in the wrapping paper shop, feel panicky and ill looking at the shelves groaning with things and more things.....pretty things, sparkly things, edible things, things I don't know what to do with, things I don't need and nor does anyone else. I end up buying a birthday present for my brother in law and some face cream for me.

 At home I escape into the familiar soothing habit of rescuing slightly tired vegetables from the fridge and turning them into lunch. A bowl of roasted sweet cherry tomatoes with garlic and parsley....a pan of spiced red cabbage and apple perked up with crushed allspice berries.

And I eat too much today. I notice when I'm this scared,  feel this out of control, I forget to listen to my hunger. Even  if or when we get a diagnosis from the MRI what if there's no treatment?

 This evening, at the beginning of watching Masterchef the Professionals, with supper trays on our laps, Robin drops with his left hand, or knocks over with his wobbly right hand ( I didn't see it) a whole tall glass of fizzy water. It floods over the table and the carpet and splashes the curtains. He's upset. I'm grateful it's only water. While I mop it up, the chocolate chip cookies we made earlier start burning in the oven. And I miss the chefs.

Later, I hug him and say,

 I'm really scared if you can't use both your hands. I don't know what to do then.

Me too, I'm sorry, he says. I'm going to check my emails now.

 He goes upstairs.  I eat one of his less burnt chocolate chip cookies and taste nothing but emptiness on my tongue.

 Pastel de Nata - Portuguese custard tart - last week when I loved every mouthful.