Kitchen Dispatch 6

Sometimes the day here feels like nothing but a drumroll for sunset.

They are always stunning. On a clear day, the sky turns gradually from a cold blue to a luminous yellow, to orange to red to pink; to a drowsy lilac. Then, as if someone was gradually adding more and more pigment with an eyedropper, it takes on a glowing blue hue - a colour for which romantic metaphors don't really suffice: it reminds me of a backlit phone screen, seen in the dark from afar, or the eery glow that emits from a room where the only light on is one made for combatting SAD.

You might imagine that on an overcast day, the spectacle would be less impressive - but on those occasions the sky takes on the character of grey silk: the lines of the clouds like ripples where it has caught the wind, its colours impossible to pin down as they oscillate between pale yellows and blues, faded pinks and stained whites. The sea turns to mercury, a liquid mirror reflecting the drama above.

There are two fragments of poems that the sunsets make me think of. The first begins T.S Eliot's The Love Song of Alfred J. Prufrock––

"Let us go then, you and I,
When the evening is spread out against the sky
Like a patient etherized upon a table"

––and the second from Philip Larkin's Coming––

"On longer evenings,
Light, chill and yellow,
Bathes the serene Foreheads of houses"

Both poems, in their entireties, speak of aloneness in some way. Coming describes a contented solitude––that of a child who comes across a scene he does not understand and is not a part of, but nonetheless feels happy to have witnessed. The Love Song offers a contrast: the isolation of the protagonist is more painful, in part because of his awareness of it––he notes the likely response of the desired other: "That is not it at all,/That is not what I meant, at all", and perfectly expresses the loneliness that is possible even when you are not alone, even when you are surrounded by beautiful, mythological creatures: 

"I have heard the mermaids singing, each to each.
I do not think that they will sing to me."

~

Before I started writing this, I went to watch the sunset this evening. I was by myself, as I am most of the time here, and my phone was out of battery. I think the experience of a sunset is different when you are very alone––when, although there maybe be people around, you are isolated by language barriers or culture clashes or others' disdain. There is always something calming about sunsets, but perhaps even more so when you have the feeling that you are taking up space in a world that is not really yours. To look at the sky and the sea, in this context, is like being able to take a deep breath after being underwater for too long: these two pass no judgement and ask nothing of you; they will always be open, always beckoning.

Books are another refuge of the lonely, and there is something especially paternalistic and comforting about cookbooks in particular. Cookbooks reach out into the physical world in a way other books don't, so that as you cook, following the recipe, you sometimes feel as though you are engaging in an activity with the writer, accompanied by them––as opposed to being the passive sponge that most other books ask you to be. Standing in my tiny kitchen, cooking from Nigel Slater or Jane Grigson––both writers who are brilliant at creating the sort of prose that feels conversational, and yet better than anything anyone would ever say to you "in real life"––I feel like I have found the perfect kitchen partner, one who will guide and encourage you, but won't backseat-cook, and won't squeal when you add far more chilli than the recipe prescribes.

Which brings me to today's supper: a concoction loosely based on Nigel Slater's "Tomatoes, chickpeas, cashews" from Greenfeast (Spring/Summer). I had to adapt the recipe to fit my one-hob situation, and I also made some substitutions, in part because of the ingredients I had in, but also because it's more fun. All measures are very rough as I have no scales; don't follow them too zealously. This should feed two, but not copiously. Again, I think it's more fun to guess your own quantities - but then I don't have to put up with anyone complaining if it's too spicy...

Yum

So: garlic––two cloves' worth, and about the same of red chilli and ginger. Chop smallish. Fry for a couple of minutes, then add a chopped onion or shallot (quite a large one, though). Keep it on a low-ish heat so nothing burns, and wait until everything's gone soft before adding two chopped tomatoes, some ground cumin, turmeric and black pepper (this should turn it a wonderful, bright orangey-red, much like the sunset on a clear day).  Keep cooking, and allow the tomatoes to get soft too, and then add a glassful of water and some lentils (a large handful?). I used what are called "lentilles blondes" here––I'm not sure what they'd be called in the UK, but they are a beige-y colour, small, and importantly, don't lose their shape too easily. They are not as earthy in flavour as puy, but puy would still work––use whatever you think or feel is appropriate; ask an astrologer if you're struggling to make a decision.

Truly amazing things happen 
when you try to take a picture over a steaming pot

Also add in a heaped tablespoon of wholegrain mustard at this point––I know it might seem like an odd addition, but it was a substitute for the yellow mustard seeds which Nigel has in his recipe, and it actually works really well. I was as surprised as you. At this juncture, I also added in some cubes of celeriac, which I'd par-boiled to make chips a few days earlier and hadn't used up. I would very highly recommend this addition––its sweetness and softness work in perfect contrast to the spicy lemonyness (yes) of how this turns out. Up to you though––either way, leave this all to simmer for a while, stirring occasionally until the lentils are cooked––make sure to add more water if they need it.

It tastes better than it looks under the crap lighting of my kitchen

When the lentils are done to your liking, squeeze in as much juice as a good, thick wedge of lemon will provide, and stir it in. Serve in bowls; I steam-fried some chard with garlic to serve alongside, which was delicious, but go with whatever accompaniment you feel is fitting. I mostly eat chard everyday because here it is so copious that it comes in huge, unruly bunches that have to be restrained with red tape and which barely fit in my fridge. I have to put in the grind to get through them. But also, it tastes really good.

                                               Mother & baby                                                  The whole hefty red-taped lot