One of the Stiltons was an extra-crumbly dry one, left over from C.'s brother's contribution to the meal. D. has moved into cooking, and has been working as a chef for about three months. Between that and his general love of cooking, he's been doing much more of it and more creatively than before. He brought us a tureen of roasted squash and turnip soup, lightly sweet, with the crumbly Stilton to be taken to bits and scattered across our bowls to add vivacity. The added depth of flavor, the slightly acid cheese, contrasted beautifully with the sweetness. D. wasn't even around to enjoy it himself: work had already lured him back to Liverpool.
It was otherwise a ritual post-Christmas meal: slices of bread, slices of turkey, all ready to be made into sandwiches. Homemade pickled onions. Homemade chutney. Salad. Cheese. Christmas cake.
I would post photos of the long afternoon light filtering through stark trees to reflect in the ponds of the Brickcroft during our digestive walk, but I forgot my camera cable in packing.