Onward and upward

Poppy time has almost passed us by this year, so here is a photo from easier times in the Languedoc

We now know that there will be a gradual return to whatever normal is - perhaps.  People keep talking about sticking to the science, but science is slow and complicated; people always hope for quick simple answers but  in reality most of the important things will be the result of political balancing acts, tempered by imprudent impatience which may make the next few weeks a rollercoaster.  At least that will be a change from groundhog weeks.  So as we get to know our new canine companions, I have been gleaning interesting stuff in my daily reading.

Minor factoid in the category ‘I never knew that...’ this week, read in the local Midi mag - the dye indigo and the woad allegedly used on their skins by ancient Brits, comes from the plant isatis tinctoria, one of whose historic centres of cultivation is linked to a body called Terre de Pastel around a place called Labège north of Toulouse. Presumably also linked to the blue denim named for ‘de Nîmes’. I first came across traditional indigo dyed cloth in northern Nigeria, where it was dunked in pits by the market in Kano. A ton of the leaves is needed to produce 2 kg of pigment.

Meanwhile I spotted this in the Guardian from Grace Dent which raises a bit of a smile with some all-too accurate commentary and some real dilemmas for the immediate future.  She's one of my favourite food writers but spreading her wings: 

"It struck me, during week four, as I made yet another freezer inventory and mail-ordered herbs to avoid my once-weekly shop, that I have become a little too good at obeying the government’s orders. Much is made of the rule-flouters – the Frisbee-chuckers and the park pond-paddlers; we hear lots, too, about the ramblers and picnickers. My favourite “Covidiot’” pictures, which I search out daily for light relief, are the Stasi-style pap shots of shoppers coming out of The Range. Among all the death and dystopian headlines, I grimly enjoy these people, sheepishly trundling trolleys to their Volvos filled with ceramic garden Buddhas, 15 litres of Daffodil White paint and signs that say, “It’s Prosecco O’ Clock”.

Obviously, I tut and cluck at this wilful dissent, but part of me is just jealous. These people are still rushing out the moment a “reason” allows them to. Meanwhile, I stand in my kitchen, wiping and re-wiping surfaces with pine forest disinfectant and batch-freezing mirepoix (that’s the fancy name for diced carrot, onion and celery) so as not to waste some sad-looking veg. It’s not sunbathers the government should fret over; it’s the millions of us it’ll need to convince, once this is over, to come out, blinking into the light….  I’m already teetering on the brink of agoraphobia; let’s call it agoraphobia-lite. I’m not strictly qualified to self-diagnose anxiety disorders, or allot them cute names, but I’m guessing the NHS is a bit snowed under right now. They do not need a middle-aged woman with a mallen streak and rough hands like Skeksis from The Dark Crystal screaming: “I am scared to go to Morrisons” via video-link.

Lockdown is disastrous for the economy, it has riven families apart and imprisoned others with their tormentors. So why do I fear it ending? Perhaps it’s because, by week four, I, like millions of others, may be treading water in a difficult place, but at least it’s the known unknown. I fear more brand new, fresh, frightening unknowns to come to terms with all over again. I should probably pop a recipe idea or something in here, because this is ostensibly a food column. How about, when the existential angst comes, open your cupboards, smear peanut butter and mashed ripe banana on white bread, and fry it in butter? Elvis lived on these, apparently, during his last difficult years at Graceland. He found them a positive boon, until he, well, didn’t.

How will the world look when I can finally visit [my vulnerable mum] again? Will I travel on the West Coast train in a mask and gloves surrounded by 100 other faceless travellers, all clutching paperwork? Will I be met with suspicion and anger when I arrive; not as a local, but as an outsider bringing germs? Will I walk into her lounge and hug her and smell her Estée Lauder White Linen and sit close enough that, within milliseconds, she’ll remark: “You’ve got a spot on your head. Have you been picking it?”  Or will I stand 12 feet away in a hazmat suit, shouting muffled platitudes, before ambling off sadly? Will life re-begin, cafes and restaurants re-open, gigs re-schedule, airports re-busy, as we learn to accept the new normal? Maybe five or six hundred fatalities a day is the price we pay for freedom and prosperity? And if all this happens soon, forgive me if I stay a shut-in for a bit longer."

Our dogs are settling in beautifully meanwhile.  They have had a lot of upheaval in their recent lives, but like many animals they seem to know when they are onto a Good Thing!