Leftovers #130
I do find it impossible to allow myself spaciousness when I get back to London. Everything I relearnt whilst away – the power of alone time, the glory of allowing days to stretch into evenings with no real plans, not drinking alcohol – gets thrown into a little box and I’m back living life in two hour increments, out every evening, gulping pints on a daily basis and saying yes to everything. Such is the romance of London! The day after I returned, I drove to spend time with two special people and took two hours rooting back into my flat. Then cycled to the pub for two pints of Guinness and a catch up with friends. Did I ever leave? It’s funny how quickly you return to your routines. My skin (and heart) deeply misses the Californian canyons drenched in sun, and my stomach misses Kismet’s rotisserie chicken and the martini at Lulu’s. But it’s good to be back – lighting candles and settling back into the rhythm of writing at my desk and filling up the fridge. Of course the first thing I cooked was white rice with fried eggs, eaten late at night as I gobbled up the last two episodes of Industry.
A kitchen of one’s own
It’s a strange thing to be removed from your place of comfort. Of course, it’s self-inflicted – I extricate myself from home for about one third of the year. In total I’ve been away from my London kitchen for about 5 months this year, and so coming back to it felt necessary and momentous – like coming up for air. I have no lovers to run back to, but I do have a brand new fridge to stock, cupboards to reshuffle and cast iron pots to fill. It’s less depressing than it sounds.
A few things I’ve been cooking:
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