Seasonal dread

My housemate called me and said she had experienced a violent cramp in her midriff. She has had an upset stomach and inigestion for five days or so. I asked what she was going to do about it and she said, ‘Nothing’. She has a swollen knee and pain in her left hip connected to trying to spare the knee when she walks. She is 67 years old and has never taken good care of her health.

 

It isn’t my problem, but I am afraid for her and I get moments of intense anxiety. She is my family.

 

This time of year I always feel something bad is lurking around the corner. Two years ago my beloved older friend Aletta died of liver cancer, very very fast. She was not alcoholic. She heard the bad news on 16 December, developed cancer of the brain after the liver destroyed itself, and died on 4 January, the day before her daughter’s 50th birthday.

 

Last year a lovely woman who lives just outside the village killed herself. She was terribly depressed and her husband went out drinking after locking her into a large garage with loaded guns stacked against the walls. She shot herself in the head and then bled to death. After the funeral he went off to spend Christmas with his girlfriend.

 

The year before, a youngish woman was found murdered in her cottage by worried neighbours. She had been dead a week and the murderer was never caught.

 

I want to feel differently about this time of year. I want to do more than limp from day to day with moods going up and down. When I try to pray or meditate, I hit dead air and concrete. My throat squeezes up.

 

Whatever happens, I have no intention of drinking. Whatever happens I know it is possible to survive and even recover from it. I want to believe there is purpose and meaning in life, however small and human that purpose.

 

But right now I feel I am running into stone walls of fear and distrust and anger. The mood lifts and the fear vanishes for a while and I can breathe again. Then something else happens and the walls close in again.

 

In past years I would bargain with God and say the same panicky prayer over and over again. Help, help, help! O God if there is a God, help! I’m in a different space now and I can open myself to the fear and dread, just wait for it to pass. Try to understand what happens inside me and that even the worst tragedy is bearable, that feelings do not kill, that loss does not annihilate.

 

Some lines from the lovely poet Louise Gluck come back to me, the kind of comfort only found in poems:

 

We have come too far together toward the end now
To fear the end. These nights, I am no longer even certain
I know what the end means. And you, who’ve been
With a man–

After the first cries,
Doesn’t joy, like fear, make no sound?

A sober palate

I’ve been watching Nigella’s Christmas recipes on BBC Lifestyle here in South Africa. Along with Mario Batali and Gary Rhodes and Rick Stein and Jamie swearing his way around Italy. Watching chefs have cheffy tantrums on the television is a very relaxing way to spend an hour or two. And I like watching those skilful techniques for the niftier cooks among us. I am too clumsy for much hoopla in terms of tossing omelettes into the air or setting  anything alight.

 

As I was watching Nigella throb unctuously about grilled poussins with pancetta, it occurred to me that most TV chefs use far too much liquor in food, the way theyonce used far too much cream and butter, or ubiquitous sliced green peppers.

I’m not being prudish as a recovering alcoholic, I admire lavish and unctuous dishes that are quite rich and complex. Once the volatiles have cooked off, the wine or brandy or sherry is no longer alcoholic and I have no problem eating it. I cook with wine myself on occasions.

 

But in my first few months of sobriety, there was no liquor at all in the house except for Una’s cherished Scotch which she fishes out from a medicine cabinet once every seven months or so. I began to make casseroles and sauces with homemade chicken or vegetable stocks or just plain water. And to my great surprise the flavours came across as cleaner and unmuddled.

My ideas on cooking underwent a revolution.

I still pour in a small glass of wine to make a classic risotto as described by Marcelle Hazan but recently I made a delicious prawn and saffron risotto with no wine at all and repeated the feat with a pumpkin and sage risotto, so that may change. Tomato soups or pasta sauces taste much better without red wine. And these days I hardly ever use salt because dashes of lime or lemon juice work just as well. My palate is refining itself. Creme fraiche works as well as single pouring cream, as does yoghurt or coconut milk for laksas. Cleaner, sharper, more natural flavours work for me.

 

It is a little like the principle behind the Eastern philosophy of feng shui, making very small changes that result in a great inner shift and transform living spaces. I stopped putting alcohol into food and my way of cooking and eating changed. Now I watch Nigella smother pastry feuillettes in melted chocolate or slosh frangelico liqueur into desserts and flinch. A delicate white fish does not need to drown in half-a-bottle of sauvignon blanc. Most red wine marinades are far too acidic and heavy. A teaspoon of balsamic vinegar mixed with Dijon mustard and a little olive oil beats most creamy salad dresings.

Less is more. I use fewer herbs (wincing at Jamies handfuls of fennel) and cook far more lightly. My idea of dieting used to be starving myself for five days while drinking only gin and lime juice. Then I would go back to coq au vin or butter chicken with relish and a reduced waistline. Now I prefer to eat more simply and get more exercise. Lighter food tastes better.

Some of this may have to do with ageing. For decades I didn’t think about ageing because I was waiting to grow up, waiting for my real extraordinary life to begin. I just passed time dreaming of my future while the hedges of briar roses and thorn grew up around the palace. Now I notice my body getting older, the tiredness at times, the need for more sleep and simpler eating.

 

This is it. This is as good as it gets. All the mystery in the world is here and cloaked in the ordinary. A glass of water tastes refreshing and the thirst is just  thirst. Wells are filling up.