13.2.24

in the soil

The rain has clumped the soil together, what a week ago was a fine tilth is now a dense mass, undiggable, to remove its weeds is not possible without clumps of soil coming away with them, pulling at roots and threads, I do not wish to do this; we dig where we must but I will not pull apart this dense soil, this moving mass of root and worm, today I stay in the air. An older branch of hazel rubs against the new and has scraped and scarred it, the older branch must be removed and I stick it in the soil by the hedge next to where last year’s pruning is stuck in the soil by the hedge and think that maybe this year a new tree will grow although – truth be told – I have no idea if hazels can regrow like that, ghosts from severed limbs.

in the kitchen

Lent begins tomorrow and although we have no intention of observing the traditional abstinences we will still enjoy the feasts which precede them, pancakes here, my partner longs for Venetian frittelle which we have no time to make, in the restaurant I make migliaccio, a baked ricotta kind-of-cheesecake stabilised (peculiarly) with a semolina kind-of-polenta, I make little chattering biscuits, I make a blood and chocolate pudding I expect no one to order; a child tries it and is pleasantly surprised, I suppose that when I bite my tongue I like the taste, she says, I’m told.

on the page

I am reading less than usual because in my usual fast-or-feast approach to work I have after a period of writing little except this thrown several ideas at the wall to see what sticks and ended up with four projects to devote my time to as well as cooking and eating and all that business of life; I have read the first few pages of several books over the past week or two and put each aside, dissatisfied or else distracted, and fuss that I am neither reading nor writing enough, I know I am being ridiculous. I read that dormice when ready for hibernation are covered with a layer of fat so soft you could leave a thumbprint, I wish sometimes to join them.