Not not not the screw top.

Cremation people: I am sure you are good and thoughtful and kind to children and animals, but who had the meeting where it was decided that the default urn would have a screw top? No human should end up with a screw top.

And logistics people: who invented the form which asks Did the Deceased die from violence?

What the buggery bollocks were you all thinking?

I’m in the irrational anger stage. You may be able to tell.

I loathe the horrid questions and decisions and things to be done. My mother has gone. Her mortal remains mean nothing to me. She is locked now in my heart, and, in time, I shall commit her to the mountains, to Glen Muick, which is my cathedral. I’ll give her back to the earth and the land and the hills and the sky. That is my own private memorial. We shall also have a little family ceremony. But the forms, the questions, the decisions and indecisions mean nothing to me.

The poor undertaker came today, and had to try and understand when I said something of this to him. He had no language in which to reply. I could see his ordered brain searching around for an answer and coming up with: No Correct Response. He is trained in the ways of formality. There can be no you or me, only yourself and myself. I had stumped in from the horses in filthy muddy gumboots and taken them off at the door. He was immaculately dressed. I sat in front of him in odd socks, with my most battered hat on because I was having a rotten hair day.

Even my sister was slightly surprised by this. ‘What is with the hat?’ she said, before she could help herself.

‘I’m having a bad hair day,’ I said. ‘Even a bad hat is better than bad hair.’

The poor, poor undertaker. I don’t think they trained him, at undertaker school, to deal with a crazy woman in no shoes and a bonkers hat who does not care what it says on the nameplate of the coffin.

Then I went and watched a Marine work a thoroughbred, and sanity returned. The Marines really, really know about death. Especially when they have been blown up twice in Afghan. He had all the language I needed, the directness, the authenticity, the keen emotional intelligence, the absolute lack of fear in the face of mortality. For half an hour, I was soothed. I could speak words that made sense, and know I was not frightening anyone. It takes more than a distracted woman in a lunatic hat to strike fear into the heart of a hoofing Royal.

I made my sister Irish stew and we spoke of life and death and love and pain.

More kind words flew in, from all corners of the internet – email messages from old friends, lovely comments on the blog, sweet flutters of generosity on the Facebook.

On my Twitter feed, there is a young boy who recently did a charity walk for the Injured Jockeys’ Fund. I’d found him on my timeline and sent him many messages of congratulation and encouragement because I found what he was doing so inspiring. It was one of those rather touching, fleeting meetings of strangers, in the ether. This young man took the time to send words of kindness and condolence. I think he is ten. He may be eleven. Imagine doing that, at such an age.

The irrational anger will come. It’s a bit of a bastard, but death makes me cross. I have to let that one roll through me, until it is out the other side. To counter it, and balance it, I must pay attention to all the good things, however small. The stalwart friend who held my horse for the farrier this morning because I was late and had to dash off; that fine Marine; that dear young stranger on Twitter; the good companions, the ones who have been with me for over thirty years, who write to make sure I know they are thinking of me. The people who say: ‘Don’t worry, I’ll do that.’ (Almost the sweetest words in the English language at times like this.)

Put in the plus column the cooking gene, so that my kitchen is now filled with soup – beetroot soup, and cauliflower soup, and my own mysterious green soup. All the people who really get it. The people who are not scared of death and strong emotion, and can be easy with those hard masters. The good Scottish weather, forecast to be dour and cloudy, which changed its mind and sent me some gentle sun. The lovely mares, in their secret field. The thoughtful neighbour, who took the time to drop in a card. All the good things. There are so many good things.

I can’t quite forgive the screw top. I expect I shall learn to let it go. I don’t care about the name plate on the coffin, but I shall do some ravishing flowers, because I do funeral flowers like nobody’s business. The flowers should not really matter either, but they do. I’ll send the old lady off with the best damn arrangement. She shall not be insulted with maidenhair fern. I find a furious consolation in that thought.

 

Today’s pictures:

Are of the simple, beautiful things to which I cling:

Brevity, and soup.

Today, the blog is late, and short. This is because I did actual social life. Instead of making jokes on Facebook with my virtual humans, I actually interacted (I believe that is the technical term) with sentient beings IN REAL LIFE.

This was reasonably rare for me even before the explosion of the internet. I have advanced hermit-like tendencies, and really am very happy alone in my room. But I drank too much champagne at my sister’s new year’s eve party and rashly made a date, and the nice people took me literally. (I am always faintly astonished when this happens.)

At first, I panicked. The house must be tidied, logs brought in, risotto cooked, candles lit, cushions plumped. I suddenly decided the guests must have four different kinds of cheese, so an emergency trip to the village was required, in the blizzard. I even arranged tulips and hyacinths, for extra points.

In the end, of course, it was absolutely delightful. It was lovely to see the real life humans, and they all had second helpings of the risotto, and admired the dog. The conversation veered wildly all over the place, from autism to the American gun lobby to the in-breeding of canines. There were enchanting young people, one of whom is studying to be a writer. ‘I must just ask you about plot arc,’ he said, as they were leaving.

‘I’m not awfully brilliant at plot,’ I said.

We discussed his difficulty for a moment. The designated driver was revving the car, needing to get off on the journey north before new snow set in. The writer had to go. He had moved on from plot to point of view.

My parting shot, as they drove away, was: ‘Now you are into the treacherous waters of the omniscient narrator....’

I really do sometimes wonder at the sentences that come out of my mouth.

It was very sweet and lovely and now we are all hunkered down for the promised storms to come. The snow has swept across the south and west, and is heading straight for us. Luckily, the field shelter for the horses is finally finished, and we showed it to them this morning. It seemed to gain their approval. (Autumn the Filly was especially impressed. Red was a little more doubtful about the idea of inside, and snorted quite a lot, as if to say: you mean I have to lead my band into this strange wooden place? She takes her duties as lead mare very seriously.)

All week, I have been promising one of the Dear Readers a recipe for soup. It was supposed to be my new chicken soup, but that is not yet perfected and I am too tired now to write it. So here is a very quick, back of a postcard, completely cheating sort of soup, which is simple and fast and good for the winter chill.

First take your stock. If you have some chicken stock, hurrah. I’m afraid I just used my favourite Marigold powder. If you are going to use instant, I would only recommend Marigold, as all other brands I find greasy and too salty and not quite right. A litre will be plenty.

Into it, put eight or nine roughly chopped tomatoes, two fat garlic cloves, and three or four cooked beetroots. I use the ones that come vacuum-packed. Not the ones in vinegar, whatever you do. Add a sprinkle of dried chilli. Simmer for ten minutes.

Liquidise, quickly, with a good dollop of extra virgin olive oil and a good squeeze of lemon. Don’t over-process. Sieve. This is important, because you want a thin, spicy, rich broth, with no pulp. Adjust seasoning; it may need a little Maldon salt.

And there you are. It’s my own invention, and it’s a good, brightly coloured, fierce thing. Perfect for the snow. We drank it out of little Moroccan tea glasses, just because.

 

No time for pictures today. Just one very dear face, also much admired by the lovely guests, and a blue, blurry evening hill:

One step forward, one step back

I remember this now, from last year. One step forward, one step back. Yesterday, with all the excitement of the election, I had a glimmering flash of normality. This is what I shall feel like when my heart no longer aches in my chest. I felt hopeful, and rather stupidly pleased with myself. I can do this thing; I can get everything into perspective and not be sunk. Watch me, marching myself back to fine.

Then, today, there was a bit of a crash. I went out to take a picture of the beech avenue. The beeches are so magnificent this year, and the sun is out, and the autumn colours are to real to be true. The Dear Readers, I thought, slightly dizzily, in my antic head, love the beech avenue; I can give them that nice treat at least, since they have to put up with all my weeping and wailing.

I took the picture. The avenue looked quite ravishing. I’ll just walk up there, I thought. I’ll walk under those venerable old trees and look at the colours. And then I got a flash of a little black ghost, trotting away in front of me, and I could not do it. Couldn’t do it.

I went back into the house and made some soup. All I have done since Friday is make soup. Chicken soup first, of course, of course, as the two ladies I think of as my Jewish and my Italian mammas came out and rolled up their sleeves. I have no idea if those stereotypes really are true. I bet there are millions of Italian and Jewish mothers who have never made a pot of soup in their lives, but the awful thing is that is what I always think, when I am attempting to heal existential wounds through cooking. I’m the one who is endlessly banging on about not generalising or making assumptions, and yet there I go.

After the chicken soup, I move on to leek. A lovely simple pale green soup, with a little onion and a handful of watercress, for strength. Today, it is mushroom soup, black and earthy and tasting very strongly of itself.

Every so often I think, furiously, despairingly, like a child: I want my dog back.

Come along, says my sensible voice, ushering me gently on through the day; come along. There’s no call for that.

Other things are happening. The poor stepfather has smashed up his knee and is in plaster. My sister had to have a rather serious operation, and calls me, dopey with morphine, from her hospital bed. Even after having two surgeons go at her, she still finds the time to read the blog and send me heartening little emails of love.

The Older Brother actually sits down and writes a letter.

It arrived yesterday. I heard the postman and went to the door. Usually, there is a muddle of paper on the floor; periodicals and flyers and charity letters and bills. Instead, there was just one pristine envelope, Smythson’s finest, in deep cornflower blue. He managed to include Paddy Leigh-Fermor, Lucien Freud and our eccentric Irish uncle, all in one letter. (Freud loved his dogs.) It was funny and touching and clever and I was rather overwhelmed that he took the time.

I do one small piece of work. I run errands. I even read a bit of the paper, in an attempt to keep up with world affairs.

For a special treat, I get a copy of the Racing Post, and read about one of my favourite horses in the world, the magnificent Hunt Ball, whose rags to riches story always brings me delight.

He started off in very ordinary handicaps, trained in a small yard, owned by a dairy farmer who gets up at four-thirty every morning to milk his cows. Over the course of last season, Hunt Ball, a big, bonny fellow, romped round course after course, winning race after race, with the handicapper puffing after him. He went from a mark of 69 to one of 157 in one year, skipping round Cheltenham for his last win under top weight. It was possibly the most popular victory of the whole festival.

Now it has been announced that he is going for the big guns, the King George and the Gold Cup. If that dream comes true, then all of racing will die of joy.

I look at the smiling face of Anthony Knott, his owner. I think: that man really knows how to chew the marrow out of life.

I think: I have been writing this blog for half the morning and I have absolutely no idea what I am talking about. Free expression is one thing; incoherent rambling is quite another.

I think: go slowly, one foot in front of another.

I think: at least that lovely sun is shining.

I think: I really, really miss my dog.

 

Today’s pictures:

The colours were so outrageous up at Red’s View that I could only blink in disbelief:

My little band:

The good companions:

They are such an unlikely pair, the roly-poly little Welsh pony and the aristocratic thoroughbred mare, but they are absolutely devoted to each other.

Myfanwy the Pony:

Red the Mare:

She is continuing her Plan of Ultimate Sweetness. She stood beside me for half an hour this morning, just contemplating, resting her cheek on my arm, bending her head round so I could rub her forehead. She can be spooky and flighty, when the mood is in her and the wind is up, but at the moment she is like the rock of ages.

Pigeon, from the archive:

There are a lot of things about her I miss; the funniness, the adoring gaze, the undimmed enthusiasm. But one of the things of which I feel most deprived is the sheer beauty. Every day, I got to rest my eyes on something lovely. I miss my aesthetic fix.

The avenue, down which I could not walk:

The hill, from a slightly different angle than usual:

Extremely naughty pea soup

Posted by Tania Kindersley.



If you are, as I am, a well-brought up sort of person, you will have been given many stern rules about the making of soup. There must be a great deal of sweating, for starters. Almost every soup requires an onion base, and the onions should be gently cooked in olive oil or butter to give up their full flavour before anything else should be attempted. But sometimes I am in a hurry, yearning for something to eat right now this very minute, and I can't be fagged, and so I just put things in a pot and boil them. This is absolute soup heresy, and I can hardly believe that I allow myself to do it (what will my poor old mother think?), and I am almost ashamed to report that you can make a soup of utter deliciousness using this trangressive method.

Today, I wanted to make a quick soup for the mama of the new baby (see yesterday's post), and I thought a lovely fresh pea soup would be perfect - easy on the digestion, full of goodness and comfort. I did not have much time, so out came the pot, and boiling commenced.

This is how I did it:

Put about half a litre of water in a pot and brought it to the boil. I did not have chicken stock in the fridge, but if you do, use that, it will add another layer of heaven. Threw in two garlic cloves and a couple of sprigs of mint from the garden. Cooked at a medium boil for about three minutes. Added half a bag of tiny frozen petit pois; brought the water back to a low boil, cooked for another two minutes. Threw in one tablespoon of Marigold bouillon powder, in my view the only acceptable substitute for real chicken stock, and - this is the real secret of perfect pea soup - half a tablespoon of sugar. This sounds strange, because we think of peas as sweet, but oddly, in a soup like this, they can have a tang of bitterness. The sugar does not taste, but merely lets the full pea flavour come out in all its glory. I discovered this through trial and error, mostly error.

Then, I put the whole lot in the blender, added a good gloop of extra virgin olive oil, and, just for the hell of it, a small handful of watercress. I have been reading a great deal about the miraculous powers of watercress lately (more iron than half a cow, more vitamin C than a bush full of oranges, or some such) and I wanted to emphasise the ultimate greenness of the soup. Blended till smooth. If it is too thick, you just add a little more stock or water. I like it thick but not gloopy, if that makes any sense at all; you will find your own preferred level. Then I checked for seasoning. If you are not using Marigold, you will almost certainly need a good pinch of Maldon salt. Also, I usually throw in a pinch of dried chilli flakes, but I left them out this time on account of the fact it was going to a breast-feeding mother. Did not want to give her little chap a shock on only his second day in the world. Generally though, I find just a dash of chilli gives a charming va va voom to the finished article.

And that is it. It took seven minutes. SEVEN MINUTES. And even if I do say so myself, it was like going to a restaurant. It's a lovely summery thing, even though the sun is resolutely refusing to shine; whatever the weather, a delightful pea soup will evoke the spirit of the season.