Wishbone Soup Cures Everything

Tired, caught out. Topics for L lie in a list, crossed out. I know I can write about ladles, for example; they are shiny and silver and good for soup; but being tired….  I never admit to writer’s block. Then I remembered this little bespoke project:

The Wishbone Alphabet – an experiment, of course, with attitude, life and the eponymous soup. I have been strolling the fields with Dog. The weather swirls from hot to cold, an assortment of fattened clouds are dumped across the sky, humidity fluctuates from one step to the next, like the dial has broken. It reminds me of when I’m tired and trying to cook. The weather is trying to remember how to knock up a thunderstorm, but keeps putting the cumulonimbus down somewhere in the troposphere, and promptly losing it . Then it forgets the dewpoint of water. And how much turbulence to add? Tiredness is a great friend to forgetfulness. I’m tired now, and in the mood for a mug of red bush tea. We have a new red kettle, it looks super-pop-fresh after the years-of-grime abstracted colour of its predecessor. If we wish for a cup of tea we simply turn on a tap; at worst, the cold tap sticks a bit; and fill the device up to an appropriate marker. Flick a switch, the electric eleme...

The Wishbone Alphabet – an experiment, of course, with attitude, life and the eponymous soup. I think I was five, maybe five and a half, because it was summer time when we trooped to the circus to chortle at clowns and be brought to trepidation by the snarls of lions; in those days animals worked the ring, it seemed natural to us; and when the trapeze artists spun in the air time must have stopped. If I was five years six months four days ten hours forty minutes and three seconds old, that’s how I stayed for the duration of the act. Not a clock ticked, not a heart dare beat. Resplendent in spangled fringing, like birds made of jewellery, with make-up so huge we could see their red smiles, even miles and miles up in the domed tent roof, they jumped without fear so I loved them. I dreamt of them. I woke up, I thought of them. At home there was a swing in the concrete yard. Seagulls spread refective white wings above me in clear blue sky, the ground was sharp with hot afterno...

Rain falls, heavy silver drops from a lead sky. Not gold, or the clouds would be truly skilful alchemists. The windscreen wipers slosh, the traffic ahead disappears into dense water.  Our vehicle is squashed into the road with all the vehicles of the people who have looked at the downpour and decided the camping trip must end.  We bypass backed up queues, sneaking into the old city of Exeter on an old single-track road, past the ancient twisted oak, past the wall the Romans built, when the oak was a slip of a sapling.  There is one last parking space waiting.  Run through the rain into Great-Granma’s flat and a row of hugs. Little grandson, aged two and one quarter, leans on his Uncle’s lap, listening to our chatter. We pile up our plates with two kinds of quiche and watch him drift to a standing sleep. 

The Wishbone Alphabet – an experiment, of course, with attitude, life and the eponymous soup. There are several ‘Happy Cartographer’ postings on this blog, which form a chronological revisiting of old diary entries, an attempt to work out how I manage to be happy most of the time- not in a skippy clappy sickly way, more kindly calmly lightly eccentric. A natural inclination that I have purposefully sought to develop (see the Happy Cartographer page above for more explanation, if you like, or look up previous Happy Cartographer postings.) Misery worked for Philip Larkin, but I prefer the daffodils.  Here I am, in 1994, thinking I’ve got it sorted, buzzing with some youthful enthusiasm, blooming into adulthood. This is not a random outburst, I had been deliberately working on choosing to be happy. I think it was around this time that I wrote my first ‘Happy Things List,’ just a simple compilation of things that cheer me up- going for a walk, climbing a tree (yes, grown ups...

The Wishbone Alphabet – an experiment, of course, with attitude, life and the eponymous soup. If you are going to eat an animal, it is considered important, in my house, to be respectful about it. Nothing should be wasted. Gravy is a serious but joyous rite, which we habitually celebrate for three consecutive days. On the first day, while the oven scorches and the meat sputters, vegetables are pared, the peelings dropped to simmer in water. Skins of parsnips, turnips, carrots, onions and potatoes bounce around in a convection current, steam fills the small kitchen. Onion skin dyes the concoction dark brown. Strained out, the skins are shiny and slippery, slivery like little fishes. This savoury dark water is held in a pan, to cook the peeled vegetables, to be mixed with the juice and fat from the sizzling roasting tin. Splashes of scolding water and tiny prickles of scorching fat decorate our forearms. This is the basis for the first batch of gravy, of which some mus...

The Wishbone Alphabet – an experiment, of course, with attitude, life and the eponymous soup. There was a time when I thought that I might be a writer of explicit sex and horror. I have also tried my hand at constructing a romance. Some good sentences came of this; and some intriguing, disturbing short stories which I will hide in my papers to be uncovered by delighted ghoulish great children one day; but the overall attempts could reasonably be categorised as failures. These clumsy fumblings have become part of my more experienced writing though. Excursions into the barbaric and the erotic have given my pen a visceral tang, and the perils of love have made me brave enough to allow visible vulnerability (maybe I should have saved this sentence for V day!) Once I tried to make a curry from a tin of syrupy sliced peaches, possibly the most revolting dish to emerge from any of my kitchens. From this I learnt you can take a sweet curry too far, but sometimes you can’t tell...

The Wishbone Alphabet – an experiment , of course, with attitude, life and the eponymous soup. I use the word ‘experimental’ to embody my approach to life so far. I mean it in an avant-garde rather than scientific sense. In balance, I write a very organised shopping list based on an orderly meal plan; being experimental isn’t a licence to act continuously on impulse. Assessment and learning are part of it too. Or am I being too subjective? Maybe I am simply glamorising contrariness? I rejected the idea of a regular Saturday job as a youngster, for I valued my time above all material things, so I sat on the beach in my second hand clothes, eating cheap sandwiches.  I played with the idea of not going to school, not being a fan of rules, but I liked learning so I decided to amble along that path for a while.  A weekend in Dublin, before starting my exciting degree, produced a daughter. I practised being a mother and then thought it might be a good thing to re...

The Wishbone Alphabet – an experiment, of course, with attitude, life and the eponymous soup. ‘ If I can’t dance I don’t want to be part of your revolution. ’ Emma Goldman. There may be a squillion different dance forms, or not, I’ve never tried counting them.  I do my own kind. Dancing, in my favourite form, is something to throw your self into, with complete mental and physical abandon, like a toddler on a bouncy castle after a bottle of cheap fizzy pop and a bag of tartrazine sweets. It is expressive, joyful, delirious, irrational, fantastical stuff. Dancing has broken many light shades in my house, and caused some of my most fabulous bruises. It doesn’t have to be dancing, but everyone should have something they let themselves go into, something that isn’t drinking or smoking or an external stimulant. It is something that should flow outwards; flow and be flung out, even if it destroys the lampshade. It should destroy the lampshade. After my revolution, destroy...

The Wishbone Alphabet – an experiment, of course, with attitude, life and the eponymous soup. Much creative work requires reflection, and it’s easy to get over involved with your self. Sometimes I am sat writing and my family want to talk to me. Sometimes I feel cantankerous about this; have even been known to mutter to myself like a seething little goblin; but however brilliant that interrupted sentence was, it is unlikely that the world will stop turning without it. I am (even if begrudgingly) mindful of the importance of the interruption. I can’t remember why, but I was once asked if I were trapped in a burning art gallery with a cat, would I rescue a beautiful timeless work of art, or the cat? Most people, including me, would choose the cat, even if it were the scratchy kind, all spit and claws. Those that would choose the artwork might want to share the miraculous inspiration of the art with future generations. But without life meaning anything, what’s the point of art?...

The Wishbone Alphabet – an experiment, of course, with attitude, life and the eponymous soup.  In this refreshing bit of didacticism, B represents the grade of life you have attained and A the grade of life you are assumed to aspire to. Algebra of the soul isn’t about being academically gifted. It’s about how you deal with the lack of sparkling perfection in your life. Having an image of perfection can be inspiring. If it’s a model of guidance it remains something to encourage us whether we achieve it or not. For example, I doubt I could be a monk, but the Dalai Llama says things that help me make decent decisions about how to live. This model says, B is acceptable, and, most importantly of all, it’s your B, enjoy it. If perfection is a model of judgement, it splits your world into succeed or fail. For example, is my bathroom clean? I don’t take the judgement model too seriously, hence the state of my bathroom. If I could wave a magic wand of achieve...

The Wishbone Alphabet – an experiment, of course, with attitude, life and the eponymous soup. A ppreciation is something to be practised at every opportunity like pelvic floor exercises and every bit as useful. Since today the A-Z theme is in its infancy I shall demonstrate using an A word, and I choose the obvious apple. I happen to have some home grown russets, stored in my fridge over winter, but one bought from a shop is absolutely acceptable. My apple is: wrinkly from long storage, rough leathered light brown skin, a bit of stalk where it was once attached to the tree. It fills my palm, the chilled weight of it, I can imagine it falling from the branch to the grass; thumping on the ground, rolling down the orchard slope till it catches and settles in uneven turf.  It has an earthy scent till I cut it, on the chopping board, under the sharpened steel blade of the vegetable knife. Opened apple fragrance is fresh and light, acidic sweet, faintly sour. The flesh...