butter

In the limbo between christmas and the new year, I was sat on the sofa next to Nile filling in my end of year workbook. I think I was writing a letter to myself and I wanted to tell me about all the butter I eat now and how I cut through the pack with a knife and lob big knobs of it into a pan on sundays along with chopped up cabbage and chunks of leeks and brussel sprouts sliced into three and half way through their cook time, I pour the fat from the chicken roasting in the oven over the greens melting in the butter.

Life is fuller now, tangible, grabbable like my waist; it’s whole and I realised, so is this afternoon. It’s mine. I’m home with my Love and there’s a cabbage in the fridge, and butter on the side, and I want sausages and greens and gravy and salted crispy potatoes, so I left my letter to prepare the pan and I stood in the kitchen for a while, smelling the steam that exploded quietly into the air when I lifted the lid and felt myself whole here, exactly who and how and where I want to be.