During my walk with Ruby this morning, I was turning over thoughts for my next post on Life on the Edge of a Soup Plate. This is fairly standard procedure, and possibly explains why so much of this blog is about my observations and adventures with Ruby on said walks.
I have been rather silent this past week. Actually, you can’t be rather silent, can you? You are either silent, or you are not. So, I have been silent. I don’t know why this should be, but we will just have to accept it, you and I.
Sometimes the Muse comes, and sometimes she doesn’t (to paraphrase the Chief in Little Big Man again) or,to badly quote Shelley, Rarely, rarely, comest Thou, Spirit of Delight A much more up-market allusion!
I was crafting a fine piece about the fragility and impermanence of life, as I battled up Reddisher hill against the cold wind, and then I was adding a few extravagant metaphors as I rattled down the appalling pot-holes and crumbling tarmac into Tunnel End.
And then I got bogged down in the wetness and gravel of a flood-eroded path.
I forgot the cadences of the work of genius I had been planning, and when I got home, with finger tips burning from the cold, even in my magic mittens, I was staring stupidly at a blank screen.
Then, I decided to get lunch, an often-used tool of procrastination. Particularly as this involved making some bread!
When I say “making bread”, I am talking in a figurative sense. What I really mean is, I decided to throw some ingredients into the bread-maker-machine thing, and switch it on. However, even this is a big deal for a blind person, so I’m going to claim it as baking. In reality, if you asked me to knead by hand, I dread to think where the flour would end up, before it became a grey, inedible clod of earth.
But oh, how my day changed in a kitchen filled with the smell of baking bread.
And then, when the new loaf was sitting, solidly and fragrantly, on the trivet, I started to make coffee.
Again, when I say “make coffee”, you mustn’t imagine me sorting and grinding and roasting Ethiopian Arabica beans, because that would be ridiculous. No, I put the milk in the frother-thing, and the coffee pod in the espresso-maker thing that I bought for Elisabeth as a Christmas present, and which she says I really got for myself, because I use it a lot more than she does.
She has to go to work, she says, with that menacing look. “It must be lovely for you. I don’t have the time to drink all this coffee.”
Those short sentences alert me, usually, to the presence of heavy sarcasm.
Today, she was at work . . . so I could get away with it.
And the eating of the bread! And the drinking of the coffee! It was a scent-treat worth enduring the blank screen for. It was simple, yet overwhelming. Coffee and bread. Bread and coffee.
I wriggled with the smug satisfaction of a status update on Facebook!
And, yes, I recognise the irony of writing a post on my blog about my bread and my coffee, while having a bit of a dig about Facebook photos of people’s dinners.
But my bread and coffee were highly significant.