Recipes are Stories

On board the ship, the endless weeks of open skies and unchanging horizons seemed interchangeable, indistinguishable from one another. I spent time in my hammock, escaping to Narnia or watching the sea, hoping to catch a glimpse of a dolphin’s fin.

Sometimes I’d sneak into Daddy’s smoking room, looking for pipe-cleaners. The wooden-panelled room smelt like burnt orange zest and French toast. The side cabinet had an array of briarwood and meerschaum pipes propped against a wooden stand. A box of Montecristos sat on a small table, next to Daddy’s black leather tobacco pouch filled with Erinmore tobacco and multi-coloured pipe-cleaners, which I’d steal to make bendy finger puppets and bracelets, or tiny flowers and fruit.