Shed Life, Part 2
shed life stretched over two summers –
There’s something strange about returning to your life after you’d been rootless for so long. The shed hadn’t lost its charm. But life felt small. Which is what I thought I wanted after all that expansive wandering – after feeling insufferably limitless.
Life was wrapped up in these four walls, the ones which housed a million feelings from last summer – fresh expectation of new beginnings, bitter disappointment at realising I was still running into myself; the boy who never loved me; the attempts to move on – the returning, always returning; new recipes eaten with old friends; solo dinners which were savoured then soured.
I stayed in the shed for three months, until I realised I wasn’t the same person who lived there last summer. I was trying to recreate a life that I had moved on from.
I had spent all of my time in Cornwall desperately crafting this homegrown identity, without realising the irony of curating what should be natural. I’d turned myself into an introvert, when I was fated to be anything but.
I found myself escaping to London for the excitement of new restaurants and the buzz of meeting friends in different places every time. It was time to come home.
The shed as a noun was my shelter. Over time, it transformed into its other meaning – to let go, fall, spill and scatter. I did it all there.
And I’ll always remember it as the place where I cooked my first risotto; the greenhouse I grew tomatoes in; the fridge that never quite fit.
Onwards we go – shedding layers and growing new ones too.
Here’s to small spaces that give you big ideas – and to chickpeas in jars (more on that below).
Cat x
PS: all pics are 35mm shot by the babe that is Maddison Areceli
welcome to the chickpea party.
I recently came very late to the Brindisa Navarrico jarred chickpea party, but my god is it one of the best I’ve been to in a while. If it were an actual party it would be in the foothills of Andalusia, on a warm evening. There would be cocktails (Campari spritz, no ice), wine (a velvety Rioja), a silken soundtrack (Phoebe Bridgers turns into Sylvan Esso turns into Boiler Room dance party?) and we’d snack on smooth hummus, Turkish salad and warmed chickpeas served with smoky flatbreads. There would be dancing and quite possibly snogging, and we’d all wake up hungover and gather for Bloody Marys and bacon at midday.
Let’s revisit the Turkish salad + warmed chickpeas situation, so we can plan this cute soirée when touching and gathering is ok?
– a sort of turkish salad
For a solo bowl (what other is there when you live alone in lockdown?): ½ large vine tomato, chopped; chopped cukes (cut about as much as your finger, just don’t cut your finger like I did); ½ roscoff onion thinly sliced (pretentious but tasty), 1/2 cup chickpeas, crumbled feta (break off two big chunks, that usually does it); ½ tbsp the brine of your olives (I love Perello and save the brine for martinis) plus a few of them chopped; juice + zest of ½ lemon; ½ cup chopped parsley; 2-3 tbsp olive oil; salt + red chilli flakes to taste.
The method? Chuck everything in a bowl, mix it together with your hands, add more of whatever you like, then serve with warmed flatbreads or pitta. I’ve been testing the yoghurt flatbreads from Staying In: The Book. Enjoy with a glass of orange wine and watching Book Club on Netflix (all hail Jane Fonda).
– boiler room chickpeas
For a bit of Sunday night comfort (or lunchtime warmth), add a splash of oil, 2 crushed garlic cloves, 1 sliced shallot, a pinch of red chilli flakes, a pinch of salt and ½ cup homemade chicken/veg stock to the bottom of a pan on a low-medium heat. Cover with a lid. Stir in 1 cup of chickpeas, then put the lid back on, turning the heat down low.
Let them dance under the lid but keep an eye of them because you don’t want things to get too heated (kind of like letting your kids make out in the car because you know it’s good life lessons, but we’re also not looking for teen pregnancies ya know). Meanwhile heat up some flatbreads/pittas in the oven, then mix together ½ cup ricotta, 2 tsp olive oil, zest of ¼ lemon, a shed load of fresh herbs and salt to taste.
Take the chickpeas off the heat once they’re soft and warm, and they’re sitting in a nice amount of broth (not soupy). Add the juice of your zested lemon. Serve up in a high sided bowl, spoon the ricotta on top, chuck some toasted hazelnuts on and scoop everything up with bread. Enjoy sitting on the kitchen counter with a glass of red and Bernardine Evaristo’s Booker Prize winning novel, Girl, Woman, Other.
food stories.
- OMG PLEASE read this hilarious Manrepeller piece based on Robert Pattinson's very chaotic microwaved pasta recipe in GQ
– I loved this personal essay in the New Yorker called "Taking My Place At My Father's Grocery Store"
– Florence Pugh is the business and this video of her eating 11 British Dishes for Vogue is delightful
a few leftovers.
Not alone on the chickpea train – BA is chucking chickpeas in caesar salad
Stocked up on Korean food supplies thanks to Oseyo London
If chickpeas aren't your thing, how about borlotti beans on toast?
Wish Gjusta delivered to the UK, I want these oils + sauces so bad rn
Send noods not nudes – keep it cool with NY Times spicy pork vibe
Avocado flatbreads are a lunchtime saviour
I think this is the perfect spring salad?
Jolene is back from Wednesday and I'm obviously v excited for it
SO here for Leandra Medine's cooking content – eggplant sticks, sure why not?
and finally.
the ultimate desert – photo c/o Naughty Piglets.
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