Driving up the cherry-blossom tree-lined street in the misting night, somehow the first word that came to mind was “galactic”. The splendor of the soft rosy poufs against the hazy indigo sky was breathtaking. The view the next morning was no less spectacular. The road has become a tunnel in frothy clouds of pale pink flowers, their perfume coaxing past my cold to remind me that it’s spring.
Friends came for dinner, which was lovely. J cooked, because he is lovely, but somehow I still felt ill-prepared. Maybe because normally I’m bustling around the kitchen, and physically completing tasks is reassuring. I made what I thought for sure was a failed custard, a clafoutis with frozen raspberries and cranberries which was a soupy mess in the oven long after it was supposed to be cooling on the counter. It redeemed itself at the last minute by firming up and tasting wonderful. Frozen fruit was almost certainly the problem but I would totally do it again, and probably will tomorrow. You see, not a scrap remains.