My jello fish

Because of the wind storm hitting Scotland, I have moved all of my outdoor plant pots inside: ferns, heather, snowdrops, plenty of weeds and snails are all snuggled in safely. The fence between my neighbours front yard and mine ( really a slice no wider than a sidewalk) has already fallen down. I hope too, the pots will provide entertainment for an irritable cat who doesn’t understand he will be blown away if he goes outside. I have a teddy here, Bombazine, who would go downstairs with me during Canadian tornadoes of long ago. My mother’s house has a terrifying cellar, hidden under decrepit art nouveau-y linoleum. A ring on the floor reveals a door, a dark stone staircase, boxes of old things, the North American furnace big and grey and booming, factory-sized for some type of being slightly smaller than humans.

I’m not sitting by the windows in case they burst open. It is near impossible to get much work done today, but i feel anxiety in my stomach about it like too much acidic coffee. i am jealous of people who are like some efficient piece of furniture with many drawers opening and shutting and everything folded neatly and able to do something without ruminating on something else, while I sit in a gloom deciding whether I should wash the dishes or read something I need and want to read.

Last year, I bought a second hand fish jelly mould and tried to set the jelly too quickly before a party, it was still liquid red by the time people arrived, and I had to make an emergency pavlova ( no great tragedy, I think pavlova and jelly with cream are the best desserts. Cake is overrated). Last week I was determined to do it correctly. I used extra powder for firmness, and did it the night before. As it is an antique mould, it has no base, and I had to balance it in a casserole dish to not spill. Originally I was going to put mayonnaise, fish and olives in it, but decided to be a populist and went with a tin of fruit cocktail. Herring and globs of red roe at previous parties lay uneaten except by me with a slavic melancholy and tastebuds.

The jelly was first still too wobbly to be moved into the fridge ( Edinburgh rental flats usually and quite meanly, have those crappy mini fridges of motels in the 90s) but my kitchen is cold enough I could leave it by the leaky window. The next day, it had a shimmer of ice over it, and I put it in a tub of warm water to loosen the sides. It came out perfectly, my jello, and I didn’t expect it too, always gambling on failure with anything I try. It was eaten too, by people who hadn’t had jelly in years and had forgotten its pleasures.

Jelly is like the moon in that I don’t think it can be photographed very well.