sponge cakes & quince trees

[penguin]

Joan, 92, appeared on doorstep yesterday, armed with a home-made victoria sponge, all  raspberry jam + fluffy butter cream.  Proper English money fabulous, all Jaeger & pearls & snow white hair, she is.  The cake was by way of comfort, for the falling out, as she put it, which my “friend” and I have had. Always, she has referred to us as “friends”, knowing full well we are, or were, more than that.  Yes joan, I said, there was a falling, but of the out-of-love, rather than the raised voices variety.  Lets put the kettle on, dear, she says, & you can tell me all about it.
So we sat, in the garden, joan and I, with tea & cake, and I tried to give words to the sadness, the loss, the caving-in of believed certainties. 92 years, 92 years is a long time, & something in her eyes told me she already knew?

And yesterday, sat by a river, listening to Canada geese waking up, I talked for the first time to someone from the strange place called internet, about quince trees, and marbles, and the need for latin passion instead of typical britishness. An easy conversation, old-friend natural, and I was smiling by the end.

Somewhere, amongst all the breaking and ending, there are always morning stars.

kate

(now cooking, as suggested - tomato, carrot & orange soup)

[newt]

(you would make a proper poet)

- matt

[Matty the Damned]

The quince is my most favourite of all fruits. Eaten raw it's just appalling, but when cooked it turns ruby red and tastes of roses and toffee.

MtD

[joemutt]

Kate, you're a writer