This text was written as I learn to live with Long Covid and attempt to regain my creativity. All the posts and some more info can be found here.
My feet are anchored on the metal steps, cooling from the gathering warmth. The water has lost all of their winter prickle, has turned into a smooth silky sheet and forgotten all of their bright crispness. I splash my arms and neck, let the water drip over my back. I repeat the motion a few times even though I know it is not needed this time of year. It is a soothing ritual of welcome and greeting. I plunge my body forward and for a split second I consider the full loop of the lake. It pulls at my brain. I know the quiet of the far corner where people do not go and the cafe has dissolved into nothingness. I steer my brain back to the reality of my body. Yes, I can swim the loop but I do not know of the consequences and I am not ready to face them should they be bad.
I meander around the small diamond of the yellow buoys, kick my legs, grab hold of my tow float and drift in the gentle current generated by the wind. A dragonfly flutters over the surface, iridescent blue, they shine under the sunlight. I follow their looping pattern and twist myself free of my tow float, sending water high in the air before finding my balance again.
Above me, I spot a small bird. Dark head, white belly, about the size of a swallow. My breath catches but then I notice the tail. The long tail is not present and I suspect this lone bird to be a house martin. I turn on my back, let my muscles hold me afloat to witness the gliding swoops of this bird.
Later, my legs full of ache and my body collapsed on the sofa, I remember the bird and the dragonfly and fall into a recovery nap with my head full of summer.
I refresh the webpage one last time, hoping for a reply about the milk. There is none. Earlier in the week, Anne Louise Avery shared a rose and raspberry cake recipe but there was a mix up about milk quantity. Somebody replied with a guess, Anne Louise Avery needed more time to bake the cake again and figure out the milk once more, and I really wanted to try the recipe. I jot down the guess and wander down to the kitchen.
I lay out the ingredients, sift the flour, add the baking powder, and realise I should not have use the big baking bowl for this. I am left with no decent size container to cream the sugar and butter together. I whisk everything into the measuring jug and wrangle the ingredients into shape, splattering the worktop with the oils of the vegan butter in the process. Sugar bits stick to my shirt and cling to my fingers as I break the eggs into the mix. I drop rose water in. Then comes the milk. I pour and pour and pour and it overflows the jug a little, a puddle of creamish white at my feet.
The dry and wet ingredients meet in a disorderly fashion and I reflect that today probably is not the day for me to be baking. Still, I want this cake. My partner is due to meet up with her family the following day and yet again, I am unable make it. I am not too fatigued this time but I have an appointment I cannot shift. I figure I can at least bake a cake and offer it as my apology.
The liquid sloshes. The batter is a swimming pool. The guessed measurement are not right. It occurs to me that I didn't have to pour it all in at once. I giggle at my fatigued brain and figure that the state things are in, I might as well just randomly throw more flour in. I empty the bag of gluten-free flour, the batter perfect for pancake but not for cake. I add some buckwheat flour and call it a day. I fold the fresh raspberries in and transfer the batter into a tin before shoving it into the oven. The timer set, I turn to cleaning the kitchen and forget about the cake.
The alarm rings as my body lay sprawled on the sofa, my legs tangled over my partner's lap as tennis plays on the television. We both get up to inspect the cake and to our surprise it is baked but also very cake like. I set it on the cooker top to cool overnight. The day has given space to the long dusk and it is time for bed. Sampling will have to wait.
In the morning, I cautiously cut through the cake to find the bulbous shapes of raspberries transformed into pressed flowers on the edges of the slice, and the heady smell of roses drifts up to my nose. I sample the small slice and humm and ahh. The texture is a little dense but acceptable, nothing that a bit of yogurt can't fix. I pack the cake in an old tin that used to carry biscuits and let it disappear south to where family lives.