Day 51: The sun also rises

It rained incessantly yesterday. In the evening I was laid on the bed writing up my day as the stuff pounded down upon the roof. This morning I woke, before the alarm for once, to a blazing autumn sun. I drove out of the yard and down the long driveway that bisects the field at the front of the hotel. The winter barley shoots are a few inches high now and the whole landscapes glows an almost luminous green. There was that wonderful sense of things having been cleansed and refreshed by nature, charged by the glory of the dawn.

Just now I walked across the courtyard to come and sit in the conservatory and scribble. The clearest, darkest sky winked down at me. Out here in the sticks, one can see the stars. How easy it would be to tilt the head back and spend hours just gazing up at them. How much changes in the course of a day.

My morning began with whisking. A lot of whisking. Whisk two egg yolks while making a syrup on the hob. Carefully combine the two, still whisking. Whisk the resulting mixture, whilst softly whipping cream. With a whisk. Got it yet? Ice cream. While that's in the freezer I make Pea and Coriander Soup. My soup seasoning has hitherto been unconvincing. Am I learning? I season at the beginning and middle, and wait for the end.

Poires Belle Helene is a classic Escoffier dessert, so I dare not tinker. Pears gently poached in syrup with lemon juice, rind and a vanilla pod, served with vanilla ice cream and chocolate sauce. While they're poaching I retrieve my brioche dough from the cold room. Hopefully a night in the fridge will have rectified my butter issue. Merde! It hasn't - the dough is too wet and almost impossible to handle. I make the best of a bad job and fashion it into a few impromptu, unorthodox shapes. It might not look too good but toasted and spread with butter, or better still foie gras, and mon Dieu! C'est brioche, n'est pas?

Pears are poached and delicately fanned. Chocolate sauce is made and in a dainty jug on the plate. Ice cream still a bit soft but I have a scoop ready and waiting in the freezer to complete the ensemble come tasting. The soup is reheating and I am seasoning. More salt, a tiny bit of sugar, and a generous helping of pepper. I am trying to retain the delicate sweetness of the peas. It probably needs a little more salt. I can be careful here, pour some off and season to check. But no, I back myself. It needs more salt. I add more. Taste. A little more? I do it. It's perfect. Leave it. I'm getting there: minute by minute, hour by hour.

Immediately after demo I drove home, got back in the whites and headed to the kitchen. It was a busy evening, making Boeuf Bourguignon for tomorrow's lunch, with a bit of lamb butchery thrown in for good measure. I finished up just before eleven and sank my customary bottle of Boags that I had chilled in the fridge in preparation. Nearly bed time.

The sun also rises and the sun goes down. And when it goes down, it hastens back to the place from whence it rises.