My Aga

Everyday, just after eight o'clock in the morning, I join the band of manic drivers on the roads of France and take my life into my hands in order to reach a destination in the shortest time possible. It's the same bunch of people trying to kill themselves and others as they weave their way towards Limoux. Just after midday the procedure is repeated and just before 1.30 as we all strive to return to wherever it is we have to be. Woe betide any person foolish enough to keep to the speed limit, God forbid that anyone would want to remain within the law. Taking a left turn on a long narrow straight road in France with a possessed person behind you takes courage. You wouldn't think it was in the highway code to attempt to overtake the person at this point before they turn but I swear I'm beginning to think it may be.

Having found myself alive so far this week my destination is my beautiful home, more precisely my drop dead gorgeous kitchen. This week it is the hub of all activity, the heart of the home, the laundry room, the playroom, the focus of all our lives. And the reason why we are all drawn like moths to a flame ? the Aga of course.

Whilst we are in between guests His Lordship has positioned my computer in a cosy corner with just enough of a view of the changing colours of the vines to keep me amused. One block is a deep rich mellow yellow whilst further along are violent slashes of blood red diminishing daily.

Today at lunchtime the sun poured through the south facing double low windows whilst the pansies swayed happily in their terracotta window boxes faces turned towards the heat.

From the Aga came two baked potatoes accompanied by Boudin Noir and slices of gala apples fried gently in butter bringing out the decorative colours of their vermillion skins. Afterwards world class meringues appeared, slightly gooey in the centre and requiring just enough cream to perfect the dessert. Rodders clotted cream from Di's Pantry in Rock or Mr Moo's ice cream from Skipsea, East Yorkshire would have been gilding the lily a mouthful too far.

So people sometimes ask me if I miss my kitchen, I make a point of not replying, instead I merely smile.