At six o’clock this morning a good morning shout from Finn’s bedroom pierced a dream I was adoring and left me feeling shaky. On morning’s like this one I love my child dearly but wish he’d go and live in China.
And so begins another white day.
These are the days when the thought of food seems more trouble than it’s worth, when your head is filled full of stuff more intriguing than the nutritional value of a bowl of strawberry muesli and only white bread dripping in butter will do. Followed by elevenses of Jammy Dodgers and too many cups of tea and maybe even a cheese scone left over from yesterdays marathon baking session (for a complimentary shot of calcium).
White days are carbohydrate days. Days made of potatoes and pastry and sticky mushroom risotto. They are for playing music without substance and wearing clothes you wouldn’t necessarily want to be seen in public in. They precede days you cannot wait for or follow days you need time to absorb. They are the days when you need all your head room to think about things bigger than recipes or fashion or your best friends latest drama. Days that demand all your concentration. Often they are licking your wounds days and once in a while they are treasuring the moment days, or even better than that, oh joy of all joys, anticipating the moment days.
Sometimes white days like mine begin with dreams you can taste all day. By fate or good luck the universe decides to play ball and offers you white weather. No sun, no rain- just white sky and room to think. Even the kids, sated by too many biscuits, let you wander around in your own little carbohydrate fuelled bubble, lost in work, or love, or plans for a whole new life or a new pair of shoes.
White days are let me be days. We’ve all had them and in my experience the answer is Rarebity Crumpets, a you don’t have to think about it recipe, which involves mixing a spoonful of butter with with cheese, a whisked egg, a splash of worcester sauce and a spoonful of breadcrumbs and allowing to melt in a really rather splendid fashion over toasted crumpets.
White heaven on a plate. And infinitely more satisfying than the box of micro-chips I have occasionally been known to resort to on a pale day like this.