Week 2: Peanut Butter Cookies

This morning, at 11 o’clock (coffee hour), I take a break from what I’ve been calling “work”. (I’ve actually just accomplished a few domestic tasks. Hung up the laundry. Eaten breakfast. Taken in a little morning novel-reading. Zadie Smith’s N-W (too soon for an opinion but I have high hopes after the spectacular On Beauty and have ignored the reviews). It’s a break from Alasdair Gray’s dystopic 1982, Janine (blame the book club) which leaves a sour taste in the mouth and is too obscene to accompany the simple pleasure of muscovado-sugar-specked porridge). Work is hard to define sometimes anyway, consisting as it so often does of watching lesbian films and trying to come up with interesting things to say about them. In any case it’s hard to say much of anything, interesting or not, without a morning coffee. By the cafetière’s side is one of the peanut butter cookies I made last night.

I say one. What I mean is two (followed by two more later on in the afternoon – if I finish them now I’m just saving myself from having another diet-free day tomorrow). Brain food, after all. The cookies are from a new recipe book that kept me company on yesterday’s train journey. Dan Lepard’s Short and Sweet. With its Neapolitan-ice-cream-coloured cover it’s hard to conceal from the laptop–ed iPhone–ed commuters around me that I’m reading a recipe book. Or that I’m making notes about which cake tin sizes I could still do with purchasing (a simple tally system tells me which of them I’m most likely to need most often). After stumbling round the station’s tiny Sainsbury’s minutes before closing time, hoping for Spelt flour but knowing I’ll have to make do with Wholemeal, arms full of baking ingredients with no thought for what might sustain me beyond these short and sweet delights, I’m home, and the oven’s on. Last minute thought before leaving the shop is that anything savoury is enough of a supper to deserve pudding afterwards. So for the sake of deserving a pudding of biscuits, I bake a supper of biscuits.

If you can get past the slight tinge of green and the look of cardboard, you’ll find that these taste really good.

They’re also from Dan Lepard’s book and they’re delicious. If a bit green. And cardboard-like. They’re good enough to serve, though, I reckon, and the friend who has come round to enjoy this evening’s episode of Homeland is happy to help me devour the lot, with slices of apple, before moving on to the cookies. Homeland is thrilling. Claire Danes is brilliant. The guy who plays Saul is, I have only recently discovered, the man who played Georges Seurat opposite Bernadette Peters’ Dot in the first run – 1983! – of a family-favourite musical, Sondheim’s Sunday in the Park With George. Those two are enough to keep my attention all series, even if the show doesn’t up its game and come up with a plot line that anyone’s going to take (semi) seriously.

Cut back to this morning, and with coffee and biscuits in tow I’m listening to Tchaikovsky’s Romeo and Juliet Fantasy Overture. I always listen out for the bit where the violas get the theme. Never as impressive as the bits where the insert-your-choice-of-other-more-majestic-instrument-here gets the theme. The piece is Howard Jacobson’s choice on Radio 3 Essential Classics. He’s letting me down, hasn’t made me laugh once. Likes good music though.

The multi-sensory taste-sound combination is enough to spur me on for the rest of the day of reading–thinking–watching–thinking–w-r-i-t-i-n-g. (the hyphens are my novel way of demonstrating the s-l-o-w-n-e-s-s of that process). I do get a few words down on paper though. Even a few that don’t have anything to do with food.

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1 Comment

  1. Lovely! I like everything about this – the photos of your flat, porridge, doing a PhD in between other essential daily tasks (Topshop sale, anyone?). Only one thing: I thought 1982, Janine was brilliant; it gets less shocking and more likeable, I promise.

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