I’m sitting here at the desk in my study looking out of the open window that overlooks the garden. It’s a beautiful morning and the trees in the gardens beyond ours are bathing in diluted sunshine. Every now and then they’re disturbed by the breeze blowing through them, like children running past dozing grandparents, and they shoo it away with their rustling. They’re starting to yellow at the edges but for now they’re more green than gold, as the weather this weekend is more late summer than autumn. But still, the telltale signs of are there, the most notable, aside from the turning of the leaves, being the early morning and late evening drop in the temperature.
Last night’s dinner was most definitely an autumnal one. It was the kind of warming, comforting meal that makes you welcome the change in season and the darker, longer nights with open arms. I slowly roasted a slab of pork belly in chicken stock and water with some root vegetables thrown in to flavour the pork and the liquid. To accompany it I steamed some Savoy cabbage and made buttery mashed potato to soak up the juices from the pan. It was late when we ate and the warm glow from the lamps that permeated the room, the dogs sleeping soundly in their beds, and the simple, honest food made me curl my toes with unadulterated pleasure. In that moment there were no worries and no cares; everything was right with the world.
