Gazpacho
In the spirit of summer, I spent 20 minutes peeling tomatoes. My poor fingers are all wrinkly. There's something surreal and not quite right about burning your fingers making iced soup.
I remember when I was a kid. That's not unusual, many people can remember being kids. But the weather was so different back then. Summers were hot but no matter how much you ran around you never got sweaty and ratty and had to have a little lie down. Not like now, when a leisurely walk to the local Spar in my shorts leaves me feeling like I've spent four years working down a fire mine without a shower eating hot wings and drinking hot chocolate. In hell.
Winter was different too - it was cold and crisp and dark burnt orange skies. Dark nights meant it was four o'clock, and you could sit upstairs on the bus, and that really doesn't have anything to do with the weather, but the snow used to lie for weeks although by the end it was dirty and just annoying but it was great when it was white and packed and you could slide along it.
But then it was winter, and soup was hot. And in the summer you had ice cream. Which is meant to be cold.
14 June, 2006
