Drying the tears with shiitake congee

During the UK's third national lockdown I have bubbled with my close friend who lives on her own. Malbec under-arm, I had walked round to her adorable little flat on a windy evening - the second evening of our newly-inflicted confinement - to find her beside herself. The second she opened the door, she told me she'd just been let go of from her management job, a job that had become her dream and that she'd put her heart and soul into. She traipsed into the living room and I followed close behind with two glasses and a bottle opener. The fire was roaring away, oblivious to its ironically jolly presence in the midst of our grave conversation. There was next to nothing I could say or do to make her feel better, so we drank, and I listened; she cried and ranted, and I listened.

Not knowing what to do after two hours of holding space for her anger and upset, I pushed out my cigarette and stood up from my seat on the floor by the fire.

‘Right, what shall I cook?’

I state this question in such a way that cannot be ignored, in such a way that says 'dinner is of great importance no matter what the situation'. This is is a notion that Kat understands. To be productive, to be in the kitchen and to nourish is something that I can at the very least provide us with the motivation for.

I led her by the hand into the kitchen so that I could heal the only way I know how and set her to work slicing vegetables. Despite her stupor she could manage the movements and rhythms that the kitchen required of her - that I required of her. I needed her to move with me so that she couldn't get lost in her pain again.

I took the helm, cigarette in one hand, glass of wine sat patiently by my opposite elbow and piles of ginger, garlic and spring onions flying at the mercy of my chef’s knife. I was making shiitake congee with pickled radishes from Ottolenghi’s new book, Flavour. As a young English girl growing up in Hong Kong, I turned my nose up at congee because it 'looked and tasted like snot'. My British tastebuds couldn't hack the earthy shiitake aromas, so this was a recipe that had been beckoning me for some weeks, to change my mind about congee. Having finally found some radishes, I piled the necessary ingredients into my bag to bring to Kat’s cubicle of a kitchen and just do the thing.

At 10pm, with prawns fried in garlic oil and broccoli tops blanched hot and fast in shallow water, we piled each component of the dish on top of the fresh, sloppy congee. Zesty orange and chilli sesame oil to top it off. We sat and stared at the steaming bowls for a moment before either of us picked up our forks. It seemed almost laughable, this ultimate act of self-nourishment given her state. But for right now it was necessary to create and sustain in the only way we could.

‘Well done girl,’ Kat said through a big mouthful of rice, nodding and moaning with approval.

Later, after too much wine, I looked at a box on the coffee table that read '10000 piece puzzle' and, although I hate puzzles, figured it would be better than talking over the job drama some more. She looked at me, shocked. “Do you mean it? Do you know how much I love puzzles?” She said, with complete seriousness. Sure, I said. Let’s do it.

She got up and scuttled to the dining room, returning with 6 plastic takeaway tubs. Seeing my confused face, she told me that we had to sort all the similar-looking pieces into their own box first.

I immediately regretted voicing the suggestion, but at least a tiny glimmer of Kat was back in the room.