As we are swept into February – the most sensible mode of transport being a coracle based on recent downfalls in west Wales – we emerge dragon hearted and hopeful that Welsh rugby might pull something out of the bag and find reason to put the tin hat on dry January. Without putting too much pressure on the Welsh team, it would be marvellous for Welsh business and morale right now if the Six Nations got off to a good start for us. Perhaps the torrid weather, worrying headlines, and winter bugs have made me delirious, but it would be quite a tonic……
The household is limping towards half term due to a recent spate of viruses we managed to swerve through the festive period, but triumphed on the return to school. It has been a particularly democratic bug, spreading its affection to all household members. My attentions have also been spread thin – I should seek shares in Olbas oil – and the washing machine is overwhelmed by its workload. We all need to down tools for a week, re group and re charge. I find at these times, when loved ones are poorly and the cat has fur balls, there is solace and sanctuary more than ever in my kitchen. I am unashamedly domestic. One of my favourite authors, the late Laurie Colwin, celebrates a deep joy in this facet of life. A collection of her essays on food, is currently on my bedside table, alongside a messy assortment of scrunched up bobbles I tear out of my hair before I hit the pillow most nights. I find her meditations on life deeply reassuring. Laurie loved to love. She delighted in celebrating this through her essays and novels. But she did not flinch from life’s uncertainties and pain, she did not attempt to correct, reform or restore like a Shakespearean tragedy, leaving her characters within their complicated lives at the final chapter, but still reaching for an onion, and contemplating dinner in the kitchen.
Because it all starts with an onion. Well, most good things start with an onion. And there is something deeply calming when chopping up an allium, the habit of chopping off either end, and then perhaps in half to two crescents with a flat base, and then aiming to dice as finely and precisely as possible. Warm, socked feet flat on the floor, belly pressed close to the kitchen counter, breathing in and breathing out, rain tapping at the window, a podcast voice, reassuring and mellifluous in the background, the heavy sigh of a contented dog. It’s a sofrito of onion, carrots and celery, gently frying in olive oil and butter, filling the kitchen with the promise of a rich ragu for later, the holy trinity that is onion, garlic and ginger rising aromatically from the stove, discs of spring onion dancing excitedly in chicken stock, ready to receive a nest of egg noodles and shredded chicken – a medicinal broth to ladle into bowls within 10 minutes. The latter being something I have made most days this week, the antiviral properties of the allium family being a potential panacea for most common coughs and colds.
My son has taken catering for GCSE. So far the syllabus has enabled our enjoyment of gnocchi (translated as ‘pillows of love’ in Italian – forever the romantic nation!) double baked biscotti studded with dark chocolate, focaccia dimpled with crystals of salt and needles of rosemary, and a Christmas yule log that lacked finesse but more than compensated in the taste department. We laughed at his last confection – I’m always dubious of fat free recipes and have never turned out a decent sponge myself – but it didn’t deflect from our enjoyment of the thick ganache he used to hide a multitude of sponge related sins. No use crying over spilt milk or indeed a rubbery sponge.
One of the first skills my son had to learn involved an onion. ‘Chopping skills today Mother,’ I was told as he amassed a rainbow of vegetables, his pristine, folded apron and a collection of neat Tupperware only to throw the lot unceremoniously into his catering bag. I am irritated by such displays of disorganization and then mesmerized by his acquired dexterity when I next witness him wield a blade and a large Spanish onion. This at least seems to have relevance as a school subject, skills he will use past the illustrious gates and parental reassurance that he will, indeed, survive in the wild.
The poet Carol Ann Duffy uses the metaphor of love being an onion, proffering, ‘an onion’ and not a rose in her poem, ‘Valentine.’ The analogy explores the darker sides of love, but I also think Duffy was being highly practical and domestic in surmising that a large onion would be a very practical contribution to the household! The unexpected end of the poem is indicative of a relationship taking a turn. Endings, I have found, can be navigated whilst taking care of yourself and those around you. At these times, ground yourself, follow a recipe, rhythmically stir and chop, organize your cutlery drawer, and there’s something to eat at the end of it.
It all starts with an onion……
