My day began before dawn. Warm and snug as a bug under duvet and heavy quilt, I woke slowly to silence. Ears awake first, then legs as I stretch out and turn over, then eyes as I come to. Once conscious, sleep is impossible for me, unlike merci beaucoup enfant deux, who could sleep through a nuclear attack and the ensuing nuclear winter. Pad downstairs to kitchen and make cup of tea, yawning. Stand at French windows as kettle boils and assess frost by amount of stars still visible.... oh man this is going to be a very cold morning. Make a flask and head out into my day. Return in time (just) to watch Rachel Allen on BBC1's Saturday Kitchen. I like her recipes. They work, and Jane Grigson would be proud.
Sometimes winter gardening means lots of weeding on knees. I know we all have safety boots that keep out the wet; waterproof trousers that keep our knees dry; and gloves that keep our hands safe, but please, can't someone invent a microfibre sufficiently fine to enable weeding AND keep our fingers warm?
This afternoon I peeled the last of the Turk's Turban pumpkins and made Nigel Slater's spiced pumpkin soup with soda bread scones (thanks Rachel.) Recipes to follow. Oh, and I can't find Gordon Ramsey's blasted recipe for boned out turkey legs with sausagemeat and something else stuffing. This is a key part of my Christmas feast, and since the motherboard self-destructed last month, I've lost forever...
Oh well. Could be worse. Could be Sting.
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