There are days when I stuff up my life with dazzling expertise. One little thing leads to disaster. Of a kind.
Chopped quinces are simmering away. Two saucepans of them. Jelly-making in progress. The quince season is short.
I sweep the floor. It needs washing. So I wash it. This means I have to stay off the floor until it dries.
But why waste the water? I proceed to wash the tiles at the front of the house. Then I nip up to the computer, while it all dries.
An aroma drifts upstairs. One of the quince saucepans has boiled dry. Very convincingly, in fact. The aroma has permeated the house. Out go all those carefully chopped quinces, now all black and ruined. The bottom of the saucepan is covered in burnt quince remnants, and it needs a lot of serious scrubbing with steel wool.
It all seems to be part of a pattern. An ineradicable pattern. In which I make decisions which lead to consequences ranging between not very good and disasters of varying import. How did I do this to myself? By now I ought to be able to sort things out. But I feel unable at this stage to remake myself and my life. Too hard, too late, too old, too alone. Too entrapped in the mire.
Weirdly, little screws of unknown origin keep appearing in the house. Where are they from, what are they for, what do they do? I wish I knew. Am I screwing up, or is life just unravelling?
Never mind. I went out and bought more jars, and more quinces. These are now dripping through the jelly bags, and perhaps the morrow will see another completed batch of quince jelly, all clear, unsullied, and flavoursome.
So I hope.
Chopped quinces are simmering away. Two saucepans of them. Jelly-making in progress. The quince season is short.
I sweep the floor. It needs washing. So I wash it. This means I have to stay off the floor until it dries.
But why waste the water? I proceed to wash the tiles at the front of the house. Then I nip up to the computer, while it all dries.
An aroma drifts upstairs. One of the quince saucepans has boiled dry. Very convincingly, in fact. The aroma has permeated the house. Out go all those carefully chopped quinces, now all black and ruined. The bottom of the saucepan is covered in burnt quince remnants, and it needs a lot of serious scrubbing with steel wool.
It all seems to be part of a pattern. An ineradicable pattern. In which I make decisions which lead to consequences ranging between not very good and disasters of varying import. How did I do this to myself? By now I ought to be able to sort things out. But I feel unable at this stage to remake myself and my life. Too hard, too late, too old, too alone. Too entrapped in the mire.
Weirdly, little screws of unknown origin keep appearing in the house. Where are they from, what are they for, what do they do? I wish I knew. Am I screwing up, or is life just unravelling?
Never mind. I went out and bought more jars, and more quinces. These are now dripping through the jelly bags, and perhaps the morrow will see another completed batch of quince jelly, all clear, unsullied, and flavoursome.
So I hope.
4 comments:
Or you can get a thermomix, which will stir your quince paste and let you know when it's done by turning off the temperature and continuing to stir so it doesn't burn.
Just saying..... ;)
Oh dear. How I relate. Some days everything (and please forgive the gross image) turns to pus under my hands.
I thought I was old enough to know better - but it seems not.
I find I have a similar problem, Persiflage, when I try to do too many things at once. At least you could rectify the damage done and start all over again with your quinces, a little the wiser, so all is not lost, however bad it might have seemed at the time.
It's usually when I am congratulating myself on my efficiency that the plates start to wobble and everything spins out of control.
I confess to clipping a kitchen timer to some item of my clothing as a reminder that something in the kitchen needs my attention...
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