It was only after I had put the blossoms into the cordial that I noticed the insects crawling all over the bag I had carried them home in. You're supposed to watch out for aphid infestations when you pick elderflowers and I thought I had been careful. Every time I reached for one of the white, expansive upturned heads of flowers I looked for inhabitants. I left a couple of colonized blooms alone. But nevertheless, I had brought dozens and dozens home with me and they were crawling all over the flowers that were meant for dessert.
I don't think they were aphids, actually. They were too skinny and cylindrical. I've always thought of aphids as quite jolly and affable insects. They've got big bellies and come in vibrant colours. Ants treat them like cattle as they secret something called "honeydew" from their anuses which the ants can't get enough of. They herd and protect them in exchange for a lick now and then. The critters investigating the inside of my carrier bag looked more like the hairs on a strawberry. Tiny, moving fibers.
It was all very well for the cordial; the blossoms had gone into a hot sugar syrup that I then topped up with some more boiling water. The flowers and some cut up lemons, zest and juice were supposed to infuse the sugar water for 24 hours before being strained through cheesecloth and decanted. If the bugs didn't drown, they must have been scorched and their wee little bodies would just get strained out the next day anyway.
But I had a few choice blooms left and they were supposed to be made into fritters, fritters that were my only plans on that Saturday night. This is how I chose to spend my last Saturday night before moving in with J. Heaving loads of wet laundry into the dryer and onto racks, watching dodgy television and eating flower fritters. I had a more sociable agenda originally, but the chilling and insistent rain put me off. I had to pack, anyway. And get my head straight. And just be alone for a little while. Who knows when that will happen again.
Not that I'm worried about moving in with J, but clearly we are going to annoy each other sometimes. We'll have a spat about the dishes now and then. And he's going to discover loads of things about me that I've cleverly been able to hide up to this point. Like how my go-to meal on lazy rainy days is Campbell's mushroom soup with some cheddar stirred through coupled with hot buttered toast. It's what my mom used to make on Sunday afternoons, minus the toast, but I think that addition brings it closer to being a full meal. What if he can't get over my condensed soup addiction and I can't see past his Marmite enthusiasm?
I just needed a quiet night and a flower fritter or two. I decided not to let the bugs ruin this one for me. So I made a simple batter with some flour and water, heated some oil, got my powdered sugar ready in a sieve and shook the flowers to dislodge their guests (you're not supposed to wash them because that takes away their aromatic flavour). A quick dip into the batter (insects floating to the top), a drop into the oil where the blooms were splayed and browned and then a dousing of sugar. Fast into my mouth. Amazing. Another one and another one. Not even thinking about the bugs. Who cares? I made a little pile and ate them unobserved, watching the storm clouds from the window.
Can you see the metaphor churning up in the batter like a little dead bug? Do you think that these fritters offered me insight into the future? That although there will be things that I find mildly off-putting about the arrangement, there will also be surprises and generally things will just be warm and lovely. He's eventually going to discover that I only excrete honeydew and that will probably be a weird moment. But we'll just crunch through the flower fritter of life getting powdered sugar everywhere.
It would be dangerous to extend this metaphor much more. These fritters loose their heat quickly and with it their verve until they are cold and soggy. If you give in and eat too many, your stomach will feel terrible and leaden just like after any deep-fried dish. Perhaps desserts do not make resilient metaphors for relationships. Instead, you should just make some and just eat them. Don't think about the bugs, just crunch through the blooms.
Notes:
1) It is not really elderflower season anymore. Try and get some if you can, but it might be better to hold off and wait for elderberries instead. We can make jelly.
2) My cordial was not a success. I used a small amount of brown sugar and it really altered the taste. I'll try again next year.
3) Do you notice how bad my photos of fried food are? I take them too quickly because I just want to eat the stuff before it goes cold. I might give up. You'll just have to imagine crispy brown things in the future.
4) This marks the beginning of my daily posts. Tune in tomorrow to see if I can keep this going.
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