![]() ![]() But then November arrives, with its grey skies, and carpet of leaves, and cheek chilling winds. I manage to go off soup every summer, wondering at the logic of blitzing up vegetables, when they’re so much better roasted, or in a salad. Comfort, before stepping into the unknown. So I made soup, the most comforting dish I could think of. More upsettingly, it was also taking me further away from the friend who was helping me out, whose couch I am now staying on as I write this. ![]() My furniture was mostly gone, it was cold and wet outside, and I was painfully aware that each box we taped up was taking me closer to saying goodbye to London. This was one of the last meals I served there. And reminiscing about the meals I made in my kitchen over the years. In the meantime, however, I am jumping between people’s houses, dragging a suitcase full of my clothes, cake tins and as many books as I can carry. This will all happen again soon, of course, in my new Liverpudlian abode. And although they would essentially have to sit in my bedroom, I loved having people around for a meal. The kitchen space (including a full-size fridge/freezer) made up for the absence of a door between my hob and my bed. It was tiny, the roof leaked for more than two years, and I lived in the living room. I have recently left the flat that has been my home for the past five years. ![]()
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