As it is for many people, for me, food is a significant comfort in life. It’s reliable and feels like a constant, even when, on a larger scale or in just everyday life, the world around is going to shit. Sometimes all it takes is for me to step into the kitchen, sigh, roll my sleeves up to my elbows, chop up a few vegetables and toss them into a pan after I’ve swirled in some melting butter.
Other times, it’s pulling on some boots and bundling my scarf right up to my nose. I’ll crunch through the trodden snow, appreciating the sharp tingle across my blushing cheeks. I’ll do it so I can grab one of those crisp, brown bags and scrutinise the basket in order to find the chunkiest bun with the most sugar and on the pointed nib. I’ll trudge back to the warmth, add some water to the kettle then climb under my duvet with the simple yet gratifying contentment of hot tea and the best lemon currant cinnamon bun in the city. ✨