Tonight, for the first time since I got here, it wasn’t hot. It’s been hot non-stop since I got here. Day and night. In South Africa, the temperature fluctuates from cool at night to warm or mild during the day. Here it’s just always hot. Hot and humid. Until tonight. I even felt a little chilly at one point, sitting outside a coffee shop called Sleepless in Seattle, drinking pink lemonade.
The seasons are changing. I love watching the seasons change. Autumn to Winter, Winter to Spring. This Autumn is a strange change. It’s not really Autumn yet. The leaves are still green on the trees. A few are starting to change but for the most part the city looks like Summer. But there is something in the air, something restless, something different. Or perhaps it’s all in my head.
Except for the crickets. It’s strange how you don’t notice what is missing until it’s there. All the time I’ve been listening to the incessant cicadas, I didn’t notice that there were no crickets. The cicadas here don’t sound the same as at home. Instead of the high-pitched wail that goes on for ages and ages, these whir at different tones and volumes, getting louder and softer, higher and lower. They’re a little annoying but you don’t notice them that much after a while. They also seem larger and more obvious than I’m used – little green monsters hiding in the bark and the leaves of every tree.
In the last few days, the cicadas have been quieter. They’re still around, but they don’t sing all the time. And into the lull has come the sweet song of crickets. When I got home tonight, I stopped for a moment on the stairs outside my door. The air was rich with the quiet murmurs of the crickets’ songs. The air was cool and the night clear and dark. It felt familiar. Felt a little like home.
Perhaps that’s why I decided to cook when I got home. Food is a strange experience in a foreign country when you not only don’t speak the language but can’t even read the alphabet. For example, I have been struggling to find flour. Just ordinary flour to make a basic white sauce, or as a base, or to cook so many things. Sometimes that’s a good thing because it pushes you to be more adventurous and try new things. Before I left for work today I put a deboned chicken breast in the fridge to defrost. I hadn’t thought about what I’d do with it. I just knew that I’d probably need something to eat when I got home. And then I got home and in a flurry of sudden activity, threw together a delicious meal. For the record, this doesn’t happen that often and will probably shock those who shared homes with me in years gone by. Tonight’s triumph was pan-fried lemon, garlic and rosemary chicken on a bed of salad greens with shaved ham, Camembert and sweet, baby tomatoes. There is such a sense of achievement in creating a particularly good meal, especially when you weren’t really sure how things would turn out. I don’t know if I’ll ever manage to achieve the same effect again. In another time, in another place, the ingredients would be different, the cooker would be different. Perhaps that’s one of the precious things about travel – Lulas pasta in Vilaculos, 3-day roast lamb on Somerset Street, lemon, garlic and rosemary chicken in Boemmul-dong, Daegu. Sometimes things work out, without any recipe, without any plans, as you sit quietly by and watch the seasons change.
Tonight, for the first time since I got here, it wasn’t hot. It’s been hot non-stop since I got here. Day and night. In South Africa, the temperature fluctuates from cool at night to warm or mild during the day. Here it’s just always hot. Hot and humid. Until tonight. I even felt a little chilly at one point, sitting outside a coffee shop called Sleepless in Seattle, drinking pink lemonade.
The seasons are changing. I love watching the seasons change. Autumn to Winter, Winter to Spring. This Autumn is a strange change. It’s not really Autumn yet. The leaves are still green on the trees. A few are starting to change but for the most part the city looks like Summer. But there is something in the air, something restless, something different. Or perhaps it’s all in my head.
Except for the crickets. It’s strange how you don’t notice what is missing until it’s there. All the time I’ve been listening to the incessant cicadas, I didn’t notice that there were no crickets. The cicadas here don’t sound the same as at home. Instead of the high-pitched wail that goes on for ages and ages, these whir at different tones and volumes, getting louder and softer, higher and lower. They’re a little annoying but you don’t notice them that much after a while. They also seem larger and more obvious than I’m used – little green monsters hiding in the bark and the leaves of every tree.
In the last few days, the cicadas have been quieter. They’re still around, but they don’t sing all the time. And into the lull has come the sweet song of crickets. When I got home tonight, I stopped for a moment on the stairs outside my door. The air was rich with the quiet murmurs of the crickets’ songs. The air was cool and the night clear and dark. It felt familiar. Felt a little like home.
Perhaps that’s why I decided to cook when I got home. Food is a strange experience in a foreign country when you not only don’t speak the language but can’t even read the alphabet. For example, I have been struggling to find flour. Just ordinary flour to make a basic white sauce, or as a base, or to cook so many things. Sometimes that’s a good thing because it pushes you to be more adventurous and try new things. Before I left for work today I put a piece of chicken in the fridge to defrost. I hadn’t thought about what I’d do with it. I just knew that I’d probably need something to eat when I got home. And then I got home and in a flurry of sudden activity, threw together a delicious meal. For the record, this doesn’t happen that often and will probably shock those who shared homes with me in years gone by. Tonight’s triumph was pan-fried lemon, garlic and rosemary chicken on a bed of salad greens with shaved ham, Camembert and sweet, baby tomatoes. There is such a sense of achievement in creating a particularly good meal, especially when you weren’t really sure how things would turn out. I don’t know if I’ll ever manage to achieve the same effect again. In another time, in another place, the ingredients would be different, the cooker would be different. Perhaps that’s one of the precious things about travel – Lulas pasta in Vilaculos, 3-day roast lamb on Somerset Street and lemon, garlic and rosemary chicken in Boemmul-dong, Daegu. Sometimes things work out, without any recipe, without any plans, as you sit quietly by and watch the seasons change.