My body and mind are having some difficulty adjusting to Norwich after a few days in the  south-east of France.  My muscles stiffen against the North Sea wind blowing ruthlessly across the Fens and Broads, my skin feels uncomfortably cold from the insidious humidity and my eyes – my eyes want to shut away the bleakness, the stark greyness, and focus on the deep, velvet-blue of the sea, still impressed on my retina, the warm, welcoming sea in which I stood up to my ankles only last week.  I fear that the shapeshifting East Anglian sky and its many shades of now opaque, now luminescent, now lead grey, is jealous of my wavering allegiance to its beauty.  Your ancestors were reared among the rugged crags of North Cornwall, lashed by the frothy Atlantic waves.  Snap out of it! You’re half Celtic, for crying out loud! it seems to say.  

It drives the message home by letting loose a gale and ripping open the clouds, unleashing a downpour of Arthurian proportions.

“Aye, that I am,” I reply, “but my wet nurse was the gentle Mediterranean.” Then I close the curtains and post a photo of the Baie des Anges, the Bay of Angels, and its blue, blue sea with swathes of apatite and aquamarine trimmed with shimmering foam, and post it on social media.

The teeming rain pummels the roof and thrashes the French window panes all night, forcing its way through the door frames.  By morning, there are small puddles to wipe from the inside doorstep.  I’ve always wondered why so many English houses aren’t built to be English-weather-proof.  Perhaps because that would go against the English principle of character-building.

Stuff all that North European severity.  I need warmth – physical and emotional.  I need colour.  I need some self-indulgent baroque.  And breakfast.  It’s after eight, so I head to Chocolate Notes.

I squeal with pleasure as soon as I push open the heavy glass door.  The air in the café is effervescent with Handel’s notes.  The “now playing” gilded frame stand by the till has a CD of Sandrine Piau singing Handel arias wedged in it.  Handel Enchantresses.  Piau’s melismas are warm and rich, with something amber-like in their tone. 

“I want,” I say, pointing at the CD with what I hope is a playfully cheeky rather than a presumptuous grin.  

“We have another copy, still sealed,” Fiamma replies with a broad smile.  I’ll put it aside for you.”

“I’m also hungry for food,” I say, examining the menu board.  “I really need something warming, as warming as this music.”

Fiamma turns to peruse the swirls of chalk on the blackboard behind her.  “How about our new porridge?”

I make a face.  “I’ve never liked porridge, I’m afraid.  My husband, on the other hand, has it every morning, religiously, and actually misses it when we’re away from home.”

“Why don’t you like it?”

“It’s just mush.  And it makes me think of cold mornings… and moral austerity.”

Fiamma laughs.  “I think you’ll find our new porridge anything but austere.  It’s so extravagant it’s positively baroque!”

I also burst into healing laughter.  “Baroque porridge? Now that I’ve got to try.” 

BAROQUE PORRIDGE

(all measurements are approximate, see https://scribedoll.com/2023/01/15/new-blog-feasts-fancies/)

Just to prove that you can make porridge without milk!

Composition:

❧ Scottish jumbo whole rolled oats

❧ Hazelnuts

❧ Walnuts

❧ Almonds

❧ Brazil nuts

❧ Cranberries (preferably home-dried, without adding sugar)

❧ Goji berries

❧ Dried mulberries 

❧ Sultanas

❧ Pumpkin seeds

❧ Sunflower seeds

❧ Hazelnut or peanut butter, or coconut oil

❧ Water

❧ 100% (unsweetened) cocoa powder (optional)

Throw all the ingredients into a saucepan, add as much water as required for your preferred consistency, bring to the boil and simmer for a few minutes (depending on how soft you like it), stirring constantly. 

I like to soak the nuts either overnight in cold water – on the rare occasions when I know what I will want for breakfast (and if I will want breakfast) the night before – or for 20 minutes or so in a cup of freshly-boiled water.