Friends and Family

We wake early around six O'clock expecting to find deep snow outside, but there is just a sprinkling, so we have been spared for now. The raw east wind has gained strength and it barges into the house, rattling the blinds and chilling the bare skin between my pyjamas and my slippers, when I let Norman into the garden to relieve himself. Even his double coat of wiry hair, is insufficient protection against its malevolence and he sprints back indoors as soon as he has completed his ablutions. I am having boiled eggs for breakfast, with rye soldiers, but there are only two of the giant pullet eggs left, so Normy has to have Bakers again. I will drive to the farm shop today, after morning coffee at the Poppy Seed and buy another dozen. Last night I peeled and sliced the Sicilian Aubergine, before salting the slices and then pressing the bitter juices out, using a colander, overnight, with a saucer and a two litre bottle of cream soda as a weight. This morning I rinse the salt off them, pat them dry with kitchen towel, brush with olive oil and then brown them in the oven for fifteen minutes, while I shower. After dressing, I construct a Parmagiana with alternating layers of Bolognese, Mozarella and Aubergine, liberally sprinkled with fresh Basil leaves. The completed dish is stored in the fridge, to allow the Basil to infuse for a couple of days before cooking. There is still enough of the Bolognese left to make a meal for one with pasta, so I store that in the fridge as well, covered with cling film. Hanne texts to ask if I will make the Poppy Seed, everyone else except her and Barbara have cried off, because of the weather, but I say I will be there in half an hour. Norman and I dress for the arctic, he in his blue coat and I in a thick roll neck sweater, over heavy winter pants and fur boots, with a warmly lined leather jacket and woolly cap. We drive to our usual spot down Norwood, near the Girls High School, park up and walk into town. A lot of cars are passing covered in snow, less than thirty miles away they have had over six inches overnight and the strong easterly wind has caused severe drifting. As we walk through Saturday Market, half the stalls are missing, presumably traders either unable or unwilling, to brave the weather. The wind chill is impressive, at least fifteen degrees in the biting, almost gale force winds. As soon as we enter the cafe, my glasses steam up and when I remove them, I find we are the first one's there, but Hanne arrives within a minute and Barbara follows shortly after and hands me an envelope containing the book she wrote for the Civic Society, entitled, "Beverley Pastures", there is a lovely view of the Minster taken across the common in summer, when it is golden with buttercups and inside the back cover is a stunning aerial photograph of Black Mill, Westwood and Beverley, also in summer, by Trevor Sanderson. Barbara tells me that there are only two copies left now of the initial print run of 500 and that another run has been ordered. Felicity is absent, admitted reluctantly to Molescroft Court Residential Care Home yesterday, I suggested to Hanne that I collect her and bring her to the Poppy Seed, but the Great Dane counselled against it, on the grounds that she needed time to settle in and once in my car, would probably have demanded to be driven home. She is probably right, so I shall visit her tomorrow, perhaps after church. A text arrives on my phone from Sarah, asking me to drop her spare keys in at the hairdressers down North Bar, where Alice has her Saturday job, as she has forgotten her set and Sarah, Clement and Louis are in Hull, attending a birthday party. I text back to say I will and then realise that I left the keys on the bedside table, so I need to drive back to Tickton to retrieve them. Norman and I walk back to the car and then drive home, where I give him a few biscuits and fresh water before driving to North Bar with the keys for Alice. Miraculously, someone pulls out of a parking space as I approach the hairdressers, so I am able to park within feet of the salon, and after delivering the keys, I wander into town. There is a new Delicatessen and cafe by the Market Cross, called Vanessa's, it was previously a news agents, but the owners retired, it is packed with shoppers and is really quite good, the meat counter is stocked with fresh local produce and when I enquire if they can get fresh veal, the butcher says he will enquire and let me know on Monday. As I still have a week of my meat free Lenten fast, I don't buy anything and there is little else that catches my eye, but I hope they do well. I potter around town for an hour and buy a few odds and ends, including a Birthday Card for Clement with a Dachshund on it, and then drive home via the farm shop, where the owner is just putting out trays of fresh giant pullet eggs, as I arrive. I buy a dozen for £3 and then drive home, looking forward to lunch and the warmth of the house. Once indoors, I make panini, one Haloumi with roasted onions and the other Mozarella with sun dried tomatoes with a tossed salad on the side and open a tin for Normy. After lunch, I make a fresh pot of coffee and then curl up with Philip Roth in the Garden Room, while the gale rattles the windows. After ten minutes a text arrives from Clement, he is getting the train back to London at half past six, and would like to meet me for coffee before he goes, so I arrange to meet him at Rolando's, in fifteen minutes. I dress for the cold again, fill out his birthday card and enclose some money and a book token and then drive back into Beverley, my luck is in again, as I find a parking space by the Beverley Arms hotel, which is just across the road from Rolando's. Clement is waiting for me inside, I order a coffee, give him his card, and then have a nice chat for an hour about graphene and diamond super capacitors and whether they could be engineered to form a battery with enough capacity to drive a car. Clement intends to work for a professor at UCL who is researching this area. Too soon it is time for him to go, so I give him a hug and tell him I will visit him in London, after my holiday in Austria. I drive back to Tickton and resume reading "American Pastoral", which keeps me occupied until bedtime. Norman snores happily on my knee, while I read. To bed for eleven.