The last few days have been really chilly, but bright and crisp. In quiet corners, the frost glints off piles of litter in the weak autumnal sunshine. On the way to work the sun is reflected in the windows of the flatblocks by the park, a vivid orange glow cutting through the willowy trees like fire, so bright it hides the stark grey concrete of Salford's slums.
At home the annual problem of how to keep the house warm is upon us again. During the summer I sealed the gaps in the floorboards but that doesn't seem to have done much good. I'm thinking of bringing the hens in at night to keep the kitchen warm, but where would we put the penguins then?
This problem of a cold house plays havoc with some of the things we try to make. Trying to keep milk warm to help it curdle and make some cheese is almost impossible, I just can't seem to maintain a level temerature other than 'cold'. Recently, I made some bread and in order to get it to rise I had to be a little bit inventive. Necessity being its mother and all that. So I have started laying a blanket down in the spare room (the only warm and dry room in the house), on top of which I put a hot water bottle filled with, well, hot water. Around this goes the bread tins and tray with dough and the whole lot is covered with a clean dry tea towel. After twenty minutes, half an hour, I go up and move everything round so the warmth gets to all sides. It looks a bit odd but the bread rises ok, eventually, and it comes out of the oven looking like it should. Now all we need is a bigger kitchen, with enough space to knead the dough without having to move things out of the way before, during and after the pummelling process.
A bigger, warmer kitchen. How lovely. Dream on...
