hadewijch
A sharp drink
In January, on a night so cold it stole my breath and caught the words as they passed my lips, Niamh made us a drink, a toddy, a totty; a hot Irish whiskey.
No that’s not what happened. We sat by the fire, Niamh and I, and it was February, and the light was whiskey warm, even if the night outside was bitter. We sent Gerold to make drinks in the kitchen, with quiet bickering and instructions. Was it honey or brown sugar? Just don’t forget cloves with the lemon, and don’t go drowning it with the hot water.
Or was it maybe March already. It was a long dark winter, but there was good conversation, sharp flavours and soft light. Winter cuts you like a knife and companionship binds the wounds.
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