Almost Spring.

Is it? Is it? No wait....

Feb 28, 2026

It’s the 756th day of winter, or is that just me? At time of writing, the UK is on its millionth day of consecutive rain this year. I don’t mind January, the earlier half of which blessed us with frosted seedhead mornings and ice-blue skies, but I find February interminable, especially this year with its leaden skies and endless mud. I had to lift the whippet over a puddle - he did not so much refuse to walk through it as look at me in utter despair. He has also had enough.

SAD lamps which I previously thought were not for me have suddenly become desperately appealing and yet in some sort of act of masochism I buy a 10x magnification LED compact mirror. Under no circumstances should I have considered doing this in winter, I know that now. Previously unnoticed (by me, anyway) little dark hairs sprout from my pale sun-deprived chin in high definition. One day nothing, the next day one has magically appeared and it’s two centimetres long. Why is this? There are little red stab marks too where I am going at them with the tweezers. I am obsessed with them, ignorance is indeed bliss so never feel tempted to do this. I move the skin on my chin right and left and realise I have turned into my mother who was rigorous with chin hair removal and would sit by the telly deftly tweezering any interlopers. When she was a sister on a geriatric ward she used to remove the chin hairs of the dementia patients because she had decided they absolutely would not want to be seen with them. Ironically, when her own dementia had advanced to the point where she was in a private, tortured world none of us could enter, she could not bear to be touched and would not let me moisturise her face (which she usually adored) or remove any rogue hairs. She died with chin hair and the idea of how much she would have hated this makes me ridiculously sad.

A burnt basque cheesecake fails twice and I have to get my stepson who is a chef to come to my rescue and bake a third one for me so I decide that on top of everything else, I can no longer bake. Honestly, the drama. My preference for wide-leg trousers has fallen foul of the weather as flapping around London in jeans sodden to the knees is awful and so I am wearing the same three pairs of skinny trousers on rotation with my winter fortifying pastry poundage spilling over the top of the waistband.

I leave leftover naan and poppadoms from a takeaway on the kitchen counter for my stepson to graze on when he gets in late from work. He mentions a few days later that he had come in from work to find a mouse sitting perkily atop the peshwari naan. I had been blithely unaware of this the next morning when I had been nibbling on the softened poppadoms whilst waiting for the kettle to boil. No, I don’t know why I didn’t cover them or why he didn’t bin them, except perhaps being deliriously tired (me or him) or pissed (him). So the mice are not enjoying the rain either it would seem. Come on in why don’t you! Daily problems have taken on gigantic proportions and whilst appreciating it is the same every year, I just can’t quite shake myself out of my annual February funk.

There are good things about February…robins, wrens, blackbirds and song thrushes sing sweetly in the trees - I will never get over the volume a tiny robin manages to reach as it hinges its little mouth open and calls for a mate. I can barely see them though, the heavy skies turn them into little dark silhouettes perching atop bare winter branches, I have to squint to catch a shadowy glimpse of their red breasts. Dinner with friends and family at Sune where my stepson works is delightful and comforting - I eat a brown bread and marmalade ripple ice cream which I can’t stop thinking about. There is a very satisfactory TBR pile of books which I have started working my way through - Raising Hare by Chloe Dalton is running alongside An Everlasting Meal by Tamar Adler. The first makes me think I should rescue a hare (this will not happen), the other makes me determined to waste less and cook more thoughtfully (this hopefully will happen but I might need a personality transplant first). I buy a hopeful red summer dress the colour of ripened tomatoes. The drizzle stops and I see unmistakeable streaks of blue sky. Forced rhubarb has appeared in the shops (I sell a kidney to purchase a few sticks) and desserts instantly look less tan and orange. I have nothing against tan and orange but I appreciate those little light-starved stems extending the late winter colour palette. I bake the Fancy Rhubarb Tart from Sift by Nicola Lamb and if that cannot cheer me up, nothing can. I add nibbed pistachios to the edges because I cut one piece of rhubarb too short and then cannot get past it.

I cave in to my resolution not to buy any books and buy a lot of books telling myself they are technically research but honestly I could say that about any book. I am also gifted books by my darling, poetic aunt and so my TBR pile is just something I say and is actually a whole library.

Our camellia bush has begun flowering, single bloom petals of the softest shell pink, planted many years ago by my husband’s father. The first camellia in the street to bloom and always a sure-fire sign spring is coming.

In A Well-Seasoned Appetite by Molly O’Neill, a book celebrating eating with the seasons, there is a chapter entitled Almost Spring. This is the season we stand in.

It is the time of year that we are forced to realise the implication of standing on two feet, reaching with two hands. We seek. We choose. We cook dinner. Late winter winds, like trends and popular conceits, sway things. But the act of cooking connects one to something more fundamental and durable. We are alive.

A gentle reminder perhaps that another winter has been endured and here we are, standing on the precipice about to fall into another spring - the birds are a little more vocal, there are snowdrops, the house starts to feel overheated and I peel a cardigan off. My thoughts start to move away from stews, ragús and soups and I start fantasising about the first Jersey Royals and bright spring vegetables. I make a Green Herbed Couscous from Persiana Everyday by Sabrina Ghayour and the emerald and fern colours streaking through it remind me of the explosion of every shade of green in late spring.

Suddenly, we have a sunny day! There is a sense of excitement in the air, everybody has instantly cheered up despite knowing there is rain forecast for the following five days. How hopeful we are and how desperate for some Vitamin D. I instantly wear a t-shirt and whip out my sunglasses which have been lurking in my glovebox. I love sunglasses, post 40 (way longer now than I care to remember) I realise my face is just instantly improved by them. Today the sky is the colour of dishrags again and I put a vest on, but I see a primrose’s butter yellow petals beginning to unfurl. March is coming…

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