A couple of days ago when Stephanie thanked me not to be a food snob, I think she didn’t realise how right she was. The proof lies in the bowl of rice I’ve just had. It was meant to be pilaf, the kind of rice you stir with a little oil then cover with water and let to cook until a perfectly golden crust forms at the bottom of the pan.
But then, minutes turned into seconds, and I ended up with a black crust. Tired and more than hungry, I ate my burnt rice. With seaweed and sesame. And also a couple of sliced spring onions.
This doesn’t call for sophistication, it calls for courage, or – perhaps more accurately – a serious dose of hunger, and chopsticks.
You see, today, I’ve been stuck in bed. Too sick to cook, let alone, to eat. It’s the kind of days where I can spend hours looking at pictures of the outdoors.
The occasional blurry squirrel, the beautiful art of Anish Kapoor at Kensington Gardens, the neat paper towels of the Serpentine cafe. More than pictures, they are moments. Spent in the wind. And the cold. And the rain.
And now, from a bed; layered with a thick duvet cover and a warm blanket.