Rome in June. It was hot, the air heavy with the tastes and smells of summer pleasures to come, school finished for Luca and I wrote about pasta with beans. Sicily in July. It was even hotter, scorched really, the sky hard hard blue, the sun at its most powerful. We settled into life there, dried tomatoes on the roof, took Nonna’s ashes to the cemetery, and I wrote about stuffed pie and stuffed tomatoes (not for the first time and probably not the last). Now, Dorset in August. It is sunny, but also rainy – so lush with potential for rainbows. I am drinking lots of tea, talking to pigs up the lane, and I have just written about chicken with peppers.
Only not here. I miss it here.
Having spent six weeks at our house in Sicily, I didn’t pass go, but came straight to my parents in Dorset to finish this second book. In the bedroom at the top of the house, a great plastic bag of my childhood paintings behind the bed, I am trying to loop it all together, the kitchens in Rome and Gela, and here I suppose, trying to find the words to describe the drive along the coast to Scoglitti and the smell of wild oregano (without sounding a wally). Every now and then I bash my head repeatedly on the table, or I thud down the stairs three at a time to make tea, or to double check that the chicken really does need 50 minutes in the oven, to see if something has risen, or not.
Then came the rainbow, and I picked it. I spent half an hour trying to find the most descriptive shade of yellow for chard, googling damn paint charts – buttercup, Tuscan roof tile, Sultan’s trousers, before telling myself to get a grip and call it yellow. Next Tuesday you can read it all about the chard and the chickpeas in The Guardian, it goes on-line at about 12 30. The book will take a bit longer, 40 weeks on Tuesday if all goes well.
For now, I am here, with tea, possibly in my dressing gown, typing. I hope you are having a good summer? More soon.