Bread and potter

I spent the last couple of days at home worrying about Small Cat, as you will know from yesterday’s blog – if you read yesterday’s blog, that is. The little beastie seems to be getting over the trauma of the surgery quite well, touch wood, and we hope she continues on this happy path until she is her usual, familiar, well-beloved mad self, charging cheerfully around the house, playing with Father, me and the various carpets, plants and blind-cords, stopping only to eat, drink water, visit her catbox and, of course, sleep, her hands and feet up in the air, her little round tummy bulging with her favourite biscuits and her tiny pink nose occasionally twitching with some joyous dream.

And as I worried and checked on her – and Father, of course – and responded to her tiniest squeaks, some of pain, some of demand, some just to check that we were awake and alert to her smallest whim or fancy – I cooked. It has almost always been something I do not just for necessity or pleasure, but for stress relief. And I went through the contents of the kitchen like a demented whirlwind, cleaning out refrigerator shelves and cupboards in my search for just the right ingredient to make whatever was already brewing in my head. And of that chaos came some delicious goulash, loaves of hot and spicy banana bread, soups, salads, curries and much else that was good to eat and even more satisfying to create.

But I will write about that tomorrow. For now, I gotta rush….