As the snow continues to flurry down on London, and the cold creeps into my bones, my mind darts off to memories of log fires — on safari, at the lodge, after a drive, a cold drink and a hot meal as we reminisce and compare sightings from the day, a kill maybe? Or cheetah? Maybe we’ll get a leopard come to the lodge seeking out the hanging carcass left to entice it.
Or not at the lodge, but in the heart of winter, my feet up against the grate, kindle in hand, maybe a glass of wine to the side as my mother in law fusses around me, the old scarred, broken iron pan in her hand as she rattles some chestnuts and says ‘faccio le mondine, va bene?’; Va bene? of course va bene, who in their right minds would say “not me thanks” when offered some blistered, charred chestnuts that burn your fingers as you shell them, the soot staining your fingers?
But the best is that summer evening, at Enrico’s, the fire stoked in the stone oven, rosemary burning as it catches the flame, a steak dripping fat causing flares and snaps of sound as it falls onto the heat as we sit around the table laughing, sipping and chatting.
Yes, on days like this, as the snow continues to flurry down on london, the cold creeps into my bones and my mind darts off to memories of warmth, of laughter, shared joy.
And I smile, conent in that memory, in that moment.