In the kitchen

The picture is of one of the first British tv cooks, Fanny Cradock (1909-94), together with her long-suffering husband Johnny. She is remembered for her technicolor presentation; what the fuck is that pile of bright green goo underneath the chicken on the left? Why has the chicken on the right got a couple of gorse bushes stuck up its drumsticks? Why is Johnny wearing a radioactivity-proof boiler-suit? Fanny, what did you use in the bright green colouring? I saw Granny Fadock in real life once, when I was a boy. She was staggering round in an advanced state of inebriation in Blackheath, London, shouting abuse at passers-by. Rather far from the elegant epitome of poshness that wafted across the telly programme, eh? Dear old Fanny. She was a national institution in her day. Unfortunately though, as Oscar Wilde once wrote, she was a myth without being a legend. She was a dear old virago of a lady. She was formidable.
There has been another change in my life, which persuades me that my latest bout of depression is over. I have been cooking for pleasure, rather than just out of necessity. The food itself isn't noticeably different from what I generally have, but I am being much more active in planning what I'm going to cook. I'm able to eat more of what I have made, instead of completely losing interest and leaving most of it uneaten. I am starting to notice and enjoy flavours, rather than being almost completely oblivious to them. When I think of it, the whole thing is about looking forward. It's about the feeling of being surrounded by love and friendship. It's about feeling love and friendship.
I wonder if my most recent fit has had some physical effect upon my brain, which has left me feeling happier. When I'm depressed next time, though, I hope a fit won't be necessary in order for me to come out of it.