January notes

My unexpected appreciation of January continues. Granted, you have to dig deep sometimes, but there are many glimmers to be found. And hard-won glimmers (like most things) tend to be the best kind.

Lying in bed with a good book, the wind doing its worst outside, is one of my favourite winter pleasures. I tend to go up early at this time of year; the nights feel long and there seems little point sitting up late when you could be warm and drowsy, gradually surrendering to sleep.

Today I went for a walk in the trees behind the house. It was grey, and slightly misty, and there was a suggestion of rain in the air. And the cold: the kind that doesn’t hit you at first, but slowly creeps along your fingers and over your face, and permeates deeply into your bones.

The trees being bare, it was lighter in there than usual despite dense layers of cloud. The ground’s covered thickly with vivid green moss, which has claimed the woodland floor and is climbing the trunks of the oaks and birches. Above, nests were clearly visible amongst the tangle of black branches.

The few remaining sloes and hawthorn berries are shrivelled and shrunken. But dotted here and there were the smallest new leaves, little fluttering scraps of emerald. Foxglove rosettes, clumps of verdant and dewy grass. Life.

After a while I came home and made a cup of tea, and did some writing.

The kitchen is still my domain of choice; at the weekend I made my first ever lasagne. And for someone who has always cooked and baked, that seems like a pretty entry-level meal to not have already made (ditto scones, and Yorkshire pudding). It was a process, the ragu being prepared on Saturday and left to sit overnight, then the béchamel cooked yesterday, and the whole thing being assembled then baked in the oven for a winter-worthy Sunday dinner.

The few remaining blood oranges have been eaten. They were so good, I’m desperate to buy more. Soft and sweet and juicy, bright flavours (and colours) for January.

We went to the garden centre at the weekend. I picked up a few small plants for my terrarium, and we bought a climbing hydrangea to train up the shed wall by the kitchen window. It’s currently an expanse of black-stained wood, and the idea of leaves and flowers to look out on is so much more appealing. Also in the basket: seeds (kale, purple Brussels sprouts, peas, sunflowers - creamy white ones, and ‘Ms Mars’).

It isn’t very tempting to go out and do much just yet. I’m waiting for the snowdrops to appear, and the hellebores to bloom.

Inside, we finally got the plate rack up on the wall. It’ll free up one of the pan drawers for baking equipment. Next weekend, the plan is to strip it of its orange layer of beeswax and get it painted.

Things are coming together.

Tomorrow I’m in the bookshop, and in the afternoon we’re taking the train to Leeds for the first of five (almost) consecutive days of treatment. It’ll be an inconvenience at most, but my final session is on Monday and we’re going to have the whole day in the city.

I mentioned in my last post that I’m now reading Vianne by Joanne Harris. It’s prompted me to think about putting my own recipe book together: handwritten, with ingredients for all those favourite meals and bakes past and present. Growing up, there was only one cookbook in the house: The Dairy Book of Home Cookery. That’s not a ‘my poor impoverished childhood’ kind of observation; back then, as with many things, one was enough. In my kitchen, I have many - some being things of great beauty - but there’s something special about a family recipe book.

And much as I enjoy leafing through those lovely volumes, it can get a bit frustrating when I need to find that one elusive recipe but can’t remember which book it’s in. Things used to be so much simpler, etc.

I’ll look for a suitable notebook: A4, sturdy, and with the capacity to take much sticking-in of scraps from magazines and newspapers. One day I’ll pass it on to Joe. Hopefully by then he’ll be trusted to use the oven and remember to turn it off afterwards.

Because he’s not coming to Leeds with us tomorrow, I’m leaving him a bowl of tuna mayonnaise, some wraps and a tube of novelty-flavoured Pringles. It might not be the most nutrient-dense meal, but it beats us returning to a burning house. And he’ll be happy, because junk food is something he lives for.

I had rice pudding for breakfast today, with a blob of raspberry jam in the middle. Dessert as a morning meal has to happen sometimes, and it was warming and filling and comforting, so why not?

I’ve acquired a new lunch bag for work. My current habit of buying lunch from the Co op is an expensive one (I usually find myself putting extras into my basket) and I invariably end up eating a limp, uninspiring sandwich and sugary flapjack or something, followed by a smoothie which promises all kinds of magical health benefits but in reality doesn’t seem particularly transformative.

The smoothie’s usually a fallback option if the coffee machine isn’t working (and it often isn’t). Plus, almond croissants. I can never leave without one. And as much as I reject guilting myself during these long, dark winter months, it would set me up for the day far better were I to eat something more filling.

So I’ll make a sandwich with good bread, and pack interesting snacks and treats - my perennial favourite being Border Dark Chocolate Gingers. I have a cheery, cranberry-red Thermos for warm food, and a tall pewter-coloured one for coffee. It’s probably time I started using them.

Whilst we’re on the subject of making poor choices, I always seem to underestimate how cold it gets at work. Once lunchtime comes around, I’m starting to feel the chill. Mid-afternoon and there’s no coming back. The window for thawing out has long since slammed shut. I’m not wearing enough layers and tomorrow I intend to address this problem.

I’d wear the cardigan I’ve been knitting, but the sleeves are giving me problems so I’ve put it to one side for a bit until I’m in the mood to tackle it.

Fortunately, my writing’s still going well. I’m probably a third into what a first draft should be, length-wise, although I suspect much of it will end up being rewritten. But that’s fine. For now, getting words on a page - and some of it is stream-of-consciousness stuff - is enough.

I like a literary/TV crossover, and despite a few lukewarm reviews, I’m enjoying the Agatha Christie The Seven Dials Mystery adaptation. And, the BBC having alerted me to them, I’m dipping in and out of MR James’s Ghost Stories. And feeling suitably unsettled by them.

There’s a book - The Haunted Library: Tales of Cursed Books and Forbidden Shelves - I’ve had my eye on for a while. It might find its way home with me before winter’s out.

And now: coffee. Joe’s home from school in an hour, and I intend to write more of this first draft while the house is quiet. January quiet, with the lamp lit and a candle burning.

Thank you for reading.

Sarah.