Scran

Saturdays are made for slowly brewed coffee and pastries and making bad jokes. We know we'll be approaching life's endgame when they're hurried and quiet. When we stop singing along to the music we used to love and the songs our parents loved and we hated because we didn't know better.

There is joy in gone-cold coffee and happiness in 9am being 11.30 because our faces ache with laughter. Pastries burn at the edges because, with bare feet and scruffy hair, we've mentally redecorated every room in the house. We've built castles and farms and mansions and hideyholes in our minds. After all, what are weekends for if not imagining all of the adventures we can have.

I want to live in that time.

To exist forever in 9-12 on a Saturday with only toast or eggs or pastries and coffee and the popcorn paws of the animal that lives at the end of the bed as nourishment.

But the midday shower signals responsibilities. There is work to be done and chores to conquer and plans to make.

At least we have the last few sips of Colombian roast.

There is work but when you know the work is worth doing then it hardly feels like work at all.

Life can sometimes feel like that. Like the scattered pieces of a jigsaw puzzle. Hours, days, weeks spent finding the right pieces to recreate the image on a box we inherited from our parents or were sold at a discount price with scuffed cardboard-bare corners.

But sometimes it can feel like a notepad found at the back of a drawn. A pen and countless blank pages to scratch and scribble and cross out and try again.

I'm going to bake bread.

For the second time this year I've made bagels.

The first attempt were dense and tough and sort-of-bagel-ish. They were vehicles for homesmoked salmon and cream cheese and although not the desired THING they were a thing nonetheless.

This new batch were much closer to what I imagine when I imagine a bagel. They were bready and chewy with a tiny hint of sweetness. These were also a vehicle for salmon and cheese, but this time from a shop.

Occasionally I try and recreate a meal that we've eaten at a restaurant. I tried it today but a dish that I had only seen in photos. In a vein attempt to impress I recreated a celeriac "carbonara".

"'s because carbonara is fiercely protected, and I sort of agree, it is a specific thing. This was like an injoke of home cooks the world over, a carbonara with cream and onion and garlic and whatever lardoned pork that isn't guanciale because who the fuck has that lying around.

In my weekend reflection I took upon myself to recreate some of the food of my childhood. There was a baker in my village that made the best morning rolls. I tried my hardest to recreate them, we'll see tomorrow.

Homemade lorne sausage is also setting in the fridge.