“For the topping, throw flour, sugar, and a pinch of salt into a bowl.” Right, okay. How much of everything? Great fucking recipe, this is. I’ll just chuck it all in, then, shall I? How much is a ‘pinch’ of salt? Deserves a bathtub’s worth of salt, if you ask me. Deserves the amount of salt that makes the eyes water, makes the tongue want to throw itself off of the edge of the esophagus. But fine, okay, a pinch it’ll be. 

 

Aren’t you supposed to be specific about measurements? I guess it’s hard to say how to make sense of a situation like this. Just use your instinct, they say. What instinct, Janet? The one that missed not just the red flags, but the flashing beacons illuminating them, the array of zealous cheerleaders literally spelling them out, and the overwhelming stench of fish with which they were infused? That instinct? Yeah, okay. I’ll use that ever-reliable gut feeling to tell me when I’ve thrown too much flour into the mix. Too late now anyway.

 

“Rub the chunks of butter into the mix until it resembles breadcrumbs”. Okay - again, vague measurement. Chunks. We’ll move past it. Time to get a grip. Finger my way through some kind of explanation. Was it me? Was it his strange relationship with his mother? Should I bother asking him? The flour’s getting everywhere, and this mixture is still un-bloody-edible, but talking about it means that at least it doesn’t run through the fingers anymore. Look at that, I can properly twiddle little clumps of it now, even roll them between the index and the thumb. “Don’t overwork it - the mixture will get heavy”. Whoops. Good call, Janet. Maybe best not to send that text. I’ve probably got as much closure as I’m gonna get. 

 

Next up, compote. “Start by peeling the fruit”. Don’t love the idea of that. Generally best to keep the skin of anything on. Isn’t it there for a reason? Besides, as we now know, nakedness always leads to bad things; regret, embarrassment. Pain. Spotting her residue on his body. 

 

It hurts, Jan. I hear what you’re saying, but unwrapping it all - it’s not what it’s chalked up to be. A second ago all that bitterness was neatly packaged up. Manageable. Bite sized. Shaving back the layers seemed harmless, but only because I hadn’t noticed the juices bleeding out onto my kitchen counter. Now they’re pooling into little mirrors against the marble surface, forcing me to stare at the grotesque, pathetic version of myself I’ve been disfiguring into; the stuff has coated my fingertips, my fingertips which are now sticky but licking them clean sends the taste of iron to my nostrils so I wipe them on my apron which happens to be my favourite one but now it’s stained berry-coloured and that’s never gonna wash out and it just fucking hurts, Jan. 

 

It hurts. But I’ve peeled them. Are you happy? 

 

“Bring the fruit to the boil” - okay - “and melt in the rest of the butter”.

 

It smells pretty good. Alarming, how soon the tip of my nose would be singed off if I leant in too closely. Not an unfamiliar feeling. And yet it really draws you in, doesn’t it?

 

You know, looking at it all simmer together like this, I can see why it works. You’re right, it could be the 200g of caster sugar. Or maybe it’s the fact I’ve chosen to ignore your instruction to “Sprinkle the lemon zest into the mix”. I don’t think so, though. People think it’s about the flavour, but it isn’t, is it? Actually, the flavour barely matters at all. Who cares how acerbic they are when they feel like warm caramel being rolled around the inside of your mouth? 

 

Anyways. That’s boiled down - the next bit is easy. Toss over the topping, chuck it in the oven, watch the edges bronzen for twenty ceaseless minutes, out the oven, smack it on a plate, bon appetit. 

 

Mm.

 

This is therapy. Grit meets syrup. Nothing is the way it was. Everything is easier to swallow. Enjoy the tang without getting the skin caught between the two front teeth. 

 

“Serve with ice cream”.