I’m just down, I said. Feeling low, a little fragile, that’s all.
Have a bubble bath, he said. Do your yogic breathing. Pour a drink. And get out the house for gods sake. Come meet me. You’re turning into a hermit.
I sighed. It’s been a horrible few days. And I haven’t felt like leaving home. Or seeing anyone.
I ran myself a bath, extra bubbles. Then lay back with my head on a fluffy towel, gazing out the window, into my garden.
A little gloomy.
And there, just waiting for me, was my rhubarb. Ripe and ready. With two new plump lemons on the tree, waiting to be plucked.
And suddenly I could taste the pie. The sweetness, the warmth, the deliciousness of hot apples, the tang of sweet and sour rhubarb, cinnamon and sugar, so much sugar.
And that was the end of my bath.
I’ve spent the day baking. I got a little distracted when I sifted the flour and remembered a very sexy encounter on the kitchen table that was messy and sticky and fantastic but then I moved on and made a rhubarb and apple pie, then a second one, also some fudge, and now I’m on to banana bread and my hands smell of apple and my mouth tastes of chocolate and caramel is bursting everywhere and the smell in my kitchen and in my hair and on my clothes is divine.
And I feel okay again.
I feel good.
Which is what baking can do for you.
And memories too.