Christmas at the Log Fire Cabin: A heart-warming and feel-good read. Catherine Ferguson
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in my absolute element when I’m dreaming up a new menu, sourcing the best ingredients from the market (you can tell a perfect, ripe tomato just by breathing in its wonderful aroma), and getting happily steamy in the kitchen. And tasting. Always tasting, adjusting the seasoning, and tasting some more. (It’s a wonder I’m not the size of a modest detached house. Mind you, Harrison did once slap my bum playfully and remark that he liked his women ‘well upholstered’, so I guess I’m not a slender studio apartment either.)
If I had my way, I’d spend most of my life in the kitchen. And I love creating Italian dishes best of all.
Not that everything I attempt is a success.
On my second date with Harrison, I tried to impress him with slow-cooked lamb’s liver and braised cabbage because he’d mentioned he liked traditional British food. I should have stuck to shepherd’s pie. It was definitely not my finest hour. The cabbage made my little flat smell like a hospital, and the liver – after stewing in the slow cooker for a full eight hours – basically disintegrated to a thick, brown mush, leaving us with a sort of warm offal smoothie. Luckily I had the number of an excellent local curry house to hand.
I was seriously amazed when next morning, as I sprayed air freshener around to banish the evidence of the liver-and-cabbage disaster, Harrison phoned to say he’d had a great time and did I want to go on another date?
I’ve come on a lot since then. It sounds corny, but the cookery course really lit the fire in me. I’d been making my own pasta for a long time and perfecting sauces to match the different pasta shapes. But on the course, I learned how to refine and combine flavours to incredible effect, using lots of fresh herbs to lift a dish to a whole new level. (The effect of adding fresh basil to a homemade tomato and mozzarella sauce was a real turning point for me. The flavour!)
I also learned that the trick to producing dishes that people get excited over and demand the recipe for, is to create the sort of food you’re genuinely passionate about.
Stretching out my arms and legs, I glance lazily around the room, which has only recently been decorated, revelling in having the whole bed to myself for a while. When we rented this house three months ago, we decided to decorate, and Harrison left the colour scheme entirely up to me, saying that a ‘woman’s eye’ was always so much better than a man’s. I laughed fondly at his slightly old-fashioned view, and dived into the task of choosing paint shades and wallpaper. I’d never lived with a guy before and it felt like a big adventure.
I’d had my doubts before I agreed to move in with Harrison.
It wasn’t that I thought we wouldn’t be compatible. It was just that I’d lived at Mum’s until I was twenty-seven and I knew only too well how claustrophobic it could be, putting up with someone else’s clutter and having barely any space to call your own.
I eventually got over my guilt at the prospect of leaving Mum, and moved into a little flat of my own, just along the road from her. I loved that flat. It was small but wonderfully airy and uncluttered. Minimalist, I suppose you’d call it. I felt I could finally breathe. And I did, that first evening when the removal men had gone. Long, restorative breaths, looking out over the village green at dusk and revelling in the nerve-tingling feeling of freedom and endless possibility. It felt quite surreal to be able to walk from one room to another without the elaborate ducking and twisting for fear of knocking anything over.
When, a year later, Harrison asked me to move in with him, I was a bit nervous at first. I loved having my own space at last. Did I really want to give it up? But I felt better after Harrison assured me that he also hated clutter and ornaments everywhere. (I was grateful for his diplomacy. ‘Clutter’ was a huge understatement in describing the state of Mum’s bungalow.) And while his reasons for wanting to cohabit with me weren’t the most romantic in the world, I could see that his idea of pooling our resources and sharing the bills made a great deal of practical sense. (Erin chortled a bit when I told her about his clever spreadsheet detailing hot-water usage, but even she had to agree that I’d be better off financially.)
Harrison emerges from the bathroom with a towel around his waist and I beckon him over to the bed with a saucy smile. He pulls on his boxers and jeans then sits down on the bed without fastening them and looks down at me, his eyes crinkling in a smile.
Sitting up, I hold the duvet around me and run my hand admiringly over the smooth skin of his back. ‘So, you really think I should take the bull by the horns and just do it?’
‘Give up the restaurant? Yes, of course. They don’t appreciate you anyway.’ He smiles and leans down to kiss me. ‘Not like I do.’
My heart expands with love. ‘I’m so glad you think that. I mean, obviously I’d start small. And I won’t be earning a great deal at the beginning but I’ve got savings, so—’
He shakes his head. ‘Don’t worry about that. We’ll easily manage.’
I sink back onto the pillows happily. I can’t believe he’s being so supportive! But I should have realised he would be. I don’t know why I doubted it. We’re a team now and that’s what partners do – they root for each other.
‘When I get my promotion, it will mean a big step up in salary,’ he says. ‘So, the fact is, we’ll more than manage. In fact, you won’t need to work at all.’ He beams at me as if this will be music to my ears. ‘You can just stay at home. Look after the house.’ He winks, getting to his feet. ‘And me.’
He zips up his jeans, picks his shirt up off the floor and walks out, just as the music downstairs announces the early-evening news.
My mouth opens but nothing comes out.
A minute later, I scramble into my dressing gown and follow him downstairs. This is far more important than the news.
Blood is rushing through my veins, urging me on. I’m normally so mild-mannered, any sort of confrontation makes me feel physically sick, even if I’m only an observer. But having my hopes and wishes discarded so easily by Harrison – with no attempt by him to understand what they actually mean to me – has really touched a nerve.
I don’t yet know if I have the courage to branch out in a new direction, but it suddenly seems massively important that I let Harrison know where I stand on the subject. I’m not quite sure where meek and mild Poppy has disappeared to, but something deep inside is urging me on and it’s not the steak pie I had for dinner!
‘Harrison? Question: what about my career?’ I stand squarely between him and the TV. I might sound calm but my whole body is shaking.
He looks taken aback by my directness and I almost feel guilty. But irritation is expanding inside me. Why is it okay for Harrison to be focused on his brilliant future career at the accountancy firm, but not me?
‘You can still do your cookery thing,’ he says magnanimously, trying to peer around me at the TV. ‘If you really want to.’
Suddenly, I’m doing a petulant little dance, moving from side to side, so he can’t see the newscaster. Eventually, he gives up and sits back, looking mildly puzzled.
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