Foodie Sitting Still

I’ve recently discovered the wondrous joy of sitting still in my life. It has been a conscious effort to do so, a mysterious warm comfort blanket of stability, of knowing where I’m going to live and work for the next couple of years, of setting down roots to nurture into a sturdy oak upon which I can lean and read my Kindle. For a frantic frequent traveller who has been a post-doc in flux for four busy years. This feels remarkably nice.

I made the decision to sit still after a recent spate of awful travelling luck. It began in Stockholm, having been privy to a delayed flight and having the misfortune to arrive into Heathrow as bewildered as a baby deer as the whole terminal was in a state of chaos due to wayward plane catching fire resulting in a temporary shut down. You don't need me to tell you that Heathrow in crisis at 2am is not a fun place to be. The mania of fraught, worried and wordless Swedes, the screaming of understandably cranky children, the patience-wearing-thin-but-still-wearing-a-veil-of-politeness British Airways Terminal 5 staff handing out baggage reclaim forms to snatching dismissive hands, the bad Costa coffee. After dragging my sorry behind home at 3am sans suitcase, I was a bit pissed off.

I returned home 10kg lighter to find that to add insult to injury, some genius criminal mastermind had stolen the majority of my money and was living it up in Singapore. I imagined him/her gleefully withdrawing hundreds of pounds at a whim, presumably to sit in fancy hotels and drink Singapore Slings, glasses clinking in the hazy afternoon sunlight, the muffled sound of the busy city below punctuated with endless toasts: ‘to fraud!’, ‘to illegal cash withdrawal!’, ‘to the poor girl in her overdraft at the age of 29!’ . Or at least that’s how I imagine it.

A few days later after navigating a mind-boggling British Airways baggage reclaim system and eventually resorting to Tweeting them directly because it was easier (what have we become?), my sorry suitcase made it’s triumphant return, the slight squeak of the wheel mirroring my residual emotional trauma.

After my money was returned, my credit cards reinstated, clothes unpacked and Buddhist abandonment of all possessions ceased. I made the decision to stop flying about for a bit and stay at home more.

The decision has been a rather fruitful one. I’ve begun to read more. I have time to make espresso and listen to the Archers on a Sunday (poor Lilian). I know vaguely what’s happening in Syria. I’ve swapped permanent shoulder damage from heavy bag straps to resting and reading in the bath. I've swapped consumption of dubious WHsmith sandwiches at a dingy train stations to crusty homemade bread topped with in-season crab and a dollop of glistening homemade mayonnaise.

So this weekend I will be sitting still and making Welsh Rarebit. The food of my people. Such a dish combines some of my favourite things: Wales, cheese and a lovely ale.

Recipe and obligatory insta-grainy photo to follow.

Bon weekend