Cold Comfort

First snow has arrived. Light flurries that turned to a confectioner’s sugar ice landscape at the dawn. While the sun shines brightly, brilliant light reflecting off the ground, the brittle breezes penetrate my clothes, reminding me of school time runs, teasing my skin, ruddying my cheeks, my chest taught despite the extra layers, my knees chilled and pinked.

I head homeward, pulled by the dogs at a pace that exceeds my fitness, leaning against a tree, allowing my breath to return. My eyes rise upwards, again, to the snow capped ridges. And I use the pause to take in the changes.

Spring barely had time to season this year before the full humidity of the summer months made movement slow, rendered small steps dependent on cool breezes, and the brow perpetually damp. Just as suddenly, trees, with their deep blue-green leaves of earlier months, changed to a lichen hue with a speed so incomprehensibly quick. Then, peeks of yellow, gold, oranges and reds emerge, bright threads in a sylvian tapestry, hinting kaleidoscopic colours to come.

Now, Christmas is upon us, and what sits on the trees, what is left, is lifeless crisp, dun. Done.

The cosmic clock has played tricks before. And, perhaps moving house again, simply stole time away. But the dogs have settled, and corners of the new house are theirs. I have yet to establish my corners. My settled spaces. Except for this place where I write and the space where I cook.

Ox blood coloured stairs, an oxidised red that will hopefully be changed, have, for the first time in the history of the house, united the kitchen to the upper floors. As steep an incline as a companionway on a boat, their chiming metal steps announce every ascendency, every downward path. Under which lie bags and boxes. Amongst which I find what I am looking for.

Russet skinned and soil dusted, I choose three palm sized potatoes, and rinse them at the kitchen sink under the lukewarm trickle of the tap. Then, scuffing them rigorously with a brush, put them down on a cloth and turn to see if the oven has come up to heat.

The small red light at the top right corner, remains determinedly alight, signifying that I should have more patience than I can muster as I wait for the temperature to rise. A roast hot, red hot, heat. The oven is new. New to the kitchen. New to me. More than mere usage, the relationship with my former oven of so many years, the idiosyncrasies, the coexistence, has left me suspicious of any other cooker. I will have to learn. To adapt. To accept.

At the back of the room, a Victorian pine table, sits regnant amongst another pile of clutter. Before the island was built, before the oven had emitted any heat, it was laid out, with cutlery, with glasses, napkins and rings, as soon as it was unwrapped from bubble coated plastic. I would suggest that I was reenforcing civilisation amidst a cluttered, barbaric, room, but practicality holds more truth; a space to use. I remove a fork from a place setting, and holding one potato at a time, begin to stab. Gothick reflections of red in the silver prongs as I pierce the skin. By the third potato, my enthusiasm is getting the better of me and I place the fork gently on the work surface.

The red light is muted, and, as I open the door, a furnace like blast steams my glasses giving me satisfying proof of the oven’s heat. I quickly place the potatoes on the chrome shelf, and shut the door. Leaving them to bake. Leaving me pause. Preparation is for later. I make time to delve into the disorder that surrounds me.

As a child, I remember a supermarket where boxes, all similar, all on shelves, were ripped open on the outward facing side so the customer could take whatever it contained. Sugar comes to mind, though there was plenty of other produce, and I was an infant holding hands with my Grandmother. The kitchen view is similar, though the boxes are as intact as they could be. The contents remain inside. Waiting for the light. I take time to search.

Daylight fades quickly in the final months of the year. The lower seasonal sun has bowed behind the mountains it barely had the energy to rise above. The woodfired oven, the stufa, glows warm, flickering light across the whitewashed walls. And although there is a raw bulb hanging from coloured wires, brightening the darkest of kitchen corners, I will turn it off when it is time to eat, preferring the subtle glow of candlelight. Muted light enhances the tastebuds, or so I have been told.

Some things are easier to find. More distinct. More obvious. The stock pot, for example, large, chrome, I spy in the gap under the oven. Filling a third of it with cold water from the faucet, salting it well, and carrying it to the hob, I place my finger pad on a spot at the edge of the hob’s surface, and it comes to life. The muted noises of gas, the steam powered harmonics of an enamelled kettle, no more. Gone. All replaced by penetrating pings, jarring alarms and ear piercing beeps of the new age. And while my environmental conscience is clear, is clean, the future is loud and not so easy to absorb, nor to accept.

The refrigerator, tall, white and slightly battered, has survived the moves, one thousand miles at a time, and two years absence in storage. The accumulation of dust, the removal of wrapping and the wrong type of wiring have not prevented the light from glowing yellow the moment the door is opened. Yoghurts, cheeses, meats, greens, wine; a cornucopia in a metal box, in contrast to the random clutter outside. I refuse a Spartan life. I stoop down to the plastic drawer at the bottom and pick out a head of broccoli, or should it be a posy the way in which I hold it? An eager bride I am not. It will turn the way of Autumnal leaves if I do not use it soon. An already opened jar of anchovies is stored in the door. The anticipation of a lick of sea salt in my meal makes my mouth water. I pick it out with the free hand and close the door with a gentle tap of my foot.

A hooked handle, faded blue numbers, multiple measurements; the clear plastic jug will work for the what I have in mind. It sits on a pile, in a box, filled with more jugs, atop other boxes, filled with storage containers, filled with bowls. All clear plastic. I have a quiet loathing for plastic cartons, but with a brief pause, I see I have been more organised than I thought, and a lopsided smile begins to bloom.

Stacked crates, found discarded at the back of a supermarket and taken home, more plastic, to be obscured behind the island’s walls and surfaces, one upon the other, side by side, black on black, by black. Spices, rices and beans that previously rattled loudly in their jars and boxes, sit neatly in this temporary configuration. The kitchen has yet to have shelves.

In one crate, amongst the spices, I find chilli flakes in a glass jar. The fire from their flesh will lend some heat to the dish. Some. I will only need a pinch. Some more, perhaps. I unscrew the top and reach in with my fingers, catching a few dried crumbs. Then, realising that I want more warmth, tilt the jar over the plastic jug and watch as the orange-red flecks fall to the bottom.

My little finger, cocked in the manner of a zealous tea drinker, delves into the now opened jar of anchovies, and picks out a couple of curled fillets.

Collioure, so many memories ago, its saline seduction drew me to her like a siren’s song, so famed were the anchovies. I may exaggerate. Even so, these, from Campania, in the south of Italy, will add a subtle depth of flavour to the meal.

I casually drop them onto the chilli flakes and drizzle in a little of the ozoned oil. Still hooked outwards, the other fingers do the tightening of the silver lid and, as I return the jar to the fridge, shamelessly licking that little finger, enjoying the tongue teasing contrast of oil, sea and salt.

Opposites attract. I find the sharpest, mustiest, vinegared roundels of flavour that aim to confuse a brine oiled mouth. Capers. A smaller jar shadowed by the chilli flakes. I drain some of the liquid into the sink then shake a few green buds into the jug.

Some things are less easy to find. Less evident. Concealed. Disguised. Garlic bulbs. Hidden in a small wicker basket on top of the fridge, at an angle and height that eludes me for a while. I stretch my arm over my head, my hand grasping blindly, grabbing the first thing I contact and then, arm lowered, watch a plump bulb roll across the counter as I relax my hand.

White parchment, streaked with a hint of purple, pulls away with my thumb nail. I might add that I keep my nails short enough for people to assume I chew them. I do not. The clove is revealed. Once. Twice. The Italians do not like a lot of garlic. I set them aside while I find my knife roll, and the collection of knives inside that always move with me.

Tailing the cloves, I use my most trusted blade to roughly chop them into small chunks. Small enough. And, sliding the metal underneath, scoop them up and drop them into the jug. The sweet aroma, alluring.

Water comes to heat at an astonishing rate with this hob, bubbling like a thermal spring, steaming the kitchen windows, the glass pane of the door.

Florets of broccoli come away as the steel works its way through the root, persuading the shoots to part. The stem is cut at the base. I square it off, trimming the sides, discarding some parts, saving some branches, leaving me with a pale jade brick. Turning the block away from me the knife slices lengthways three times. Then, rolling it, three times more. Sixteen strips become several cubes as I finish cutting, all joining the florets. All scattered across my chopping board. All to tumble into the rolling water and swirl for a little longer than I would normally allow.

I am reminded of a childhood game, as I head to the square, wicker basket on the window ledge. Take a small wire hook and remove a miniature straw coloured piece from a pile, keeping the heap whole and unmoved. Here, I keep gadgets that were too important to put into storage: whisks, zesters, spatulas, spider, stick blender. A veritable treasure trove of items that, in truth, were never as vital as I thought.

I reach in and remove the spider, zester and blender, carefully trying not to dislodge the other utensils. As with the game, there is always a chance of failure. The long, electric wire attached to the blender is knotted around an antique serving spoon, its silver plate glistens, winking at me mockingly, as once lifted, it loosens, and drops onto the terracotta floor. The sudden, loud chime rings shrill in the kitchen, attracting rude stares from the dozing dogs. I lose.

The array of utensils I need, are lined up on the work surface, and, moving sideways to the hob, I ready myself with the spider to scoop out the broccoli, florets and cubes, from the rolling water and into the jug. The smaller pieces are more difficult as they whirlpool around the pot. But, after several this ways and thats, I make my final swoop, catching the most enigmatic particles in a sea of, what has become, green tinted water. I lower the heat.

The potatoes, crumpled skins, have baked to a snowball softness, sit cool on the counter. Waiting to be pulped. Waiting to be mashed. To be riced. I do not have any idea where the ricer, bought at great expense, is. I will use a fork and pray for fewer lumps. I am very religious.

Pounds, ounces, grams, kilos. Weight has no meaning. Not tonight. The boxed scales are boxed elsewhere and I am forced into a guessing game until I find them. My knife cuts through the leathered skin, halving each one lengthways. Six ovals of potato pulp. The fallen spoon, since wiped clean, slowly scoops out the flesh and drops it into a large glass bowl. I repeat the motions five more times, ensuring that at least one shell of skin remains intact.

The pricking fork held firmly in my hand, I start my work. Slowly, carefully pressing down on each potato piece with the back of the prongs. Fluffing with an upward motion. Turning clumps into tuberous clouds. Brightly hoping for a smooth consistency, while fighting any darkly pessimistic Celtic urge that is there.

I turn to the fridge, opening the door and picking out from the top, from the clear plastic shelf, from a clear plastic tray, a solitary egg. Brown and generously sized, the chiming, the cracking sound, clashing as the shell, broken on the edge of the glass bowl, drops its contents over the mashed, for that is what I have, potato. The fork swirls the egg, breaking the yolk, fusing it with the white, and whisking it into the potato. The mixture is wet. Hinting yellow.

Flour, Double “O”, milled to a finer consistency than ordinary flour. The pack, opened at an earlier time, in another kitchen, is on top of the crate that carries the herbs, the spices. I pick up one of the potato shells. It will become my measuring cup, replacing any scales. I fill it level with the farinous powder, sprinkling it into the bowl. My right hand delves in and merges, mixes. I repeat, filling the skin half again. Shaking most of it over the potato, scattering the rest of it onto the work surface. Kneading. The word is too strong, the action too rough. But a gentle melding action until it balls. The texture losing wetness. Turning tacky. Dry enough, not too dry. I lift it out of the bowl and lower it onto the work surface.

The work top comes from the discarded counters of an old pasticceria, a bakery, turned into a holiday home. Those granite slabs have become the island and the draining surfaces. And here, where the stone is so cool and smooth, the dough could almost forget the need for flour. Or that is what I imagine as I scatter some more, just in case.

Tearing a ball of the mixture, I start to roll it out on the powdered work top. Watching it snake out beneath my hands as I spread my fingers wider. My arms moving outwards, further. Further.

A side knife, flat steel blade, yellowing bone handle the colour of aged teeth, acts as my cutter. Lightly pinching the worm with my thumb and forefinger I lop off the roughened end. The knife cuts the flesh an inch, perhaps, a couple of centimetres, at a time, the flat side flicking each nugget towards the back of the counter. Another ball, another roll. More flour. More length. More cutting. More flicking. More. I look into the empty bowl and then to what is scattered across the island top. I have more than I need. A lot more. I will not go hungry.

Emerald tinted with hints of bronze, the broccoli infused water, heated earlier, starts its rippling motion a second time as I touch the surface to initiate power. Touch sensitive, I still push downwards. The magnetic force driving the water into a more and more frenzied roll. Perhaps too frenzied. I reduce the heat slightly.

Click. I attach and twist the two parts together. Click. Locking the stick blender halves. The motor and the blade. A light glows blue when I connect it to the socket under the stone surface of the island.

My thumb searches for the starter button, where the rubber is soft, and with a slight squeeze, I test to see if it works. The propeller blade gives a satisfying whirr just beneath my eyeline. Turning it downwards with purpose, and placing the cupped end into the jug of broccoli, I begin to pulse. The garlic perfume and tangy scent of fish muted by an earthier brassic aroma. Reaching over to the boiling water with the silver serving spoon in hand, I take a measure. Splashing some of the salty liquid into the jug, I start to render down the chunks, lumps and fronds, the broccoli, garlic, saline and spice. Another spoonful. It starts to become the looser vibrant green sauce that I have in mind. One more time.

The sauce pours from the jug spreading out onto the wide base of the sauté pan. Its colour in sharp contrast to the yellowness of the silicone spatula. I scrape as much as I can, before perching the pan on the farthest end, the cooler part, of the stufa’s hot plate. It is temporary. Too much heat now, and the colour will turn an unappetising grey-green.

There is a lemon ageing on my granite pestle. Tired and beginning to harden. I introduce its skin to the fine blades of the zester and, holding it over the sauce, start to shave away the zingy outer layer. It is a last minute addition that will give the sauce a fresher element, where cooking might mute any citric kiss. Stirring it into the broccoli.

I had selected the spider for removing the gnocchi once cooked, I now realise I have nothing for putting them into the stock pot. Wedged against the wall of the wicker basket, hidden from initial sight, a cream coloured dough scraper peeps into sight. I am ready to finish what I began.

While water swirls and rolls more gently than before, I scoop the gnocchi onto the wide flat surface, lunging my hand forward and capturing the nuggets with the other to stop them falling. A dozen or so at a time drop into the steaming liquid at a time. Trying hard not to splash and scald myself. I fail. I repeat the process another time. And again. My pain is lessened by a cool trickle of water at the kitchen sink. A rapid motion before turning to the sauce.

I remove the sauté pan from the stufa and bring it alongside the stock pot. And wait. I realise I am holding my breath, but each time I make gnocchi, it produces the same reaction. The pause is too suspenseful. Slowly, ever so slowly, they begin to release themselves from the bottom of the pan and rise gracefully to the surface. Individually. In pairs. In clusters. They rise. And respiration resumes.

I reach for a pasta dish that has warmed in the oven and prepare to serve. With the spider I start to lift the dumplings out of the water and drop them gracelessly into the green sauce, no shaking of drops, but allowing the extra liquid to keep the sauce thin. I swirl the spider around, again, and again, capturing as many as possible at each turn. Watching them polka dot the sauce as they fall into the sauté pan.

The spider is replaced by the silver spoon, generous enough for precision serving. I tilt the pan and its contents towards me and use the spoon to coat and gently toss. Then, one small serving at a time, lay the meal into the well of the plate.

A grind of pepper and a drizzle of olive oil, extra virgin, local. Grassy and spicy. I take my dish to the table. The music is jazz, the wine regional, and the candles lit. An affectation? Perhaps. A classic dish this is not. A hint of rebellion? Maybe. I will never be Italian so why pretend? Why worry? I shrug, and lean into the large bowl of warm food. Hearty food. Comfort food. Thoughts, like the snow outside, melting away with each mouthful.

“While ingredients are measured, food is love, sustaining everyone and everything. But love cannot be measured, so food, as with love, cannot be quantified.”

Anonymous