There is ice in a jug… sixteen cubes. The ice tray squeezed. Twisted. Turned. Returned. A tortuous route to getting the little blocks out. The ice, such a small amount still manages to radiate a column of coolness in my stifling kitchen. It is hot. Hot in the way you do not see fellow dog walkers for weeks. This long, hot summer´s day has become a long, hot summer´s evening with hues of orange, lemon and gold. Movement leaches liquid. Still air stickiness adding to the discomfort. Even the aroma of fresh herbs is muted. The open windows and doors do little more than invite unwanted, blood sucking insects that home in on my skin. I am loved. For the wrong reasons.
A perfect synthesis of style - on the page and on the palate.
Wonderful as always! Well done Louis! 👏👏😘