Lately I’ve been singing. I’d always rather be dancing but failing that, singing will do: songs from Georgia. (not the Deep South but the country near the Black Sea in the Caucasus.) Food comes in to it, of course, preparing for a
feast where singing is interspersed with raising glasses for a toast and eating, or the other way about.
Recipes researched are rich in walnuts, cherries, figs, apricots abundant there. The names seductive even before the taste of stewed apricots stuffed with walnut paste or white cherries with hazelnuts registers on the tastebuds, redolent of clear turquoise seas and holidays long ago, Persian miniatures painted on slips of Ivory or gardens dripping in fruit and tinkling with fresh water.
Not sure of course of the authenticity or if my attempts even approach. Never was a fussy cook, earning the irreverent sobriquet Mrs Bunger from the children as if any old way would do. It’s not that, but I’m definitely no perfectionist.