I have started pawing around contentment like a skittish tomcat, unsure if I’m ready for domestication. The bed is soft and warm and burrowed; it is easy to curl there. The days are spacious, carved by yogic craftsmen who understand the need for particular curves and sanded corner. I’m not used to such simplicity, or at least such softness.
It’s not just the bed, either. I’ve become softer too. Blame a boy who appreciates the feast like I do; blame that long winter tucked undercover with cava and horror movies and angles of skin.
We are more squidgy than when we met. The past while has been: sticky, rust-coloured onions caramelising into boozy soup &
fresh-baked rosemary and walnut loafs, torn from the oven, pillows of dough, steam-train puffs of heat &
fragrant laksas, sour with nam pla, padded with rice, coriander ballerinas composing pirouettes on the surface &
buffalo mozzarella, strangely sweet, slightly sweated, ripped into shreds and desiccated with black peppercorn &
homemade pesto: sweet with basil, soft with oil, sharp with wild garlic leaves, bound together with parmesan, umnn…
… plump, slithering gnocchi wet with sage butter, rotund with simmered fungi guts &
all manner of baked pies and pastries, pirate chests stuffed with treasure &
crinkled walnuts swathed in rank feral stiltons &
midnight feasts & crumbs in the bed &
oysters like the spray from the prow of the ship.
I am a pig in all things, in booze and books and sex and words and flowers and, especially, in food, and I am looking forward to Lebanon next week and all the feasts that are yet to come.