As I make quiche for lunch someone is playing the piano upstairs, The notes float down through the air of the hot kitchen like snowflakes dancing.
It almost seems as if the music enters the food, the repetitions and variations interweave and merge with the crisp pastry, buttered leeks and creamy eggs.
He pauses and then begins again, seeking perfection. The gentle music is bringing something long forgotten to memory as I work. I stop to listen, then turn and fill another quiche. Each of us is working in his own way: each feeding the other.
Anne Humphreys