Cooking

I used to have quiet, private times in my parents’ kitchen. It was pale and clean and when it was cold outside the windows steamed and blurred the rest of the world into shades of green and grey. I would put on Radio 4 so that I could hear it over the boiling kettle, and listen to programmes about books: throaty received voices talking to me about words on pages. I’d cook, too. Sauces and vegetable dishes and things with tofu. The steam warm and wet on my face, the hot back-of-the-throat purr of turmeric and paprika. It could only be so perfect when alone.