I don’t know why I started taking phone photos of my food these past couple of months. It certainly wasn’t for sharing on Instagram (except to gleefully gross people out with my favourite toast topping of pickled beetroot slices on peanut butter – so far I’ve only managed to woo a few recruits to this piquant paradise of purply nuttiness). The photos probably have more to do with stopping to notice the small miracle factor of the transfiguration of ingredients into something meal-shaped, even when minimal interventions had been made on the way from the fridge to the plate (I’ve eaten a surprising amount of raw food for a deep, dark Scottish winter – very few stews and very many salads – mainly due to the languor of lockdown, much too tired and apathetic to dirty more dishes than I needed to). In the same, same, same of the world of our small rooms, the plate served to offer one of the only shows of the day: a colourful, campy arrangement of plants and their derivatives. And I, the maker and eater, had perfect liberty to destroy each small creation. I don’t know why I’ve written this paragraph in the past tense. Lockdown goes on, the tiredness goes on. But, then again, nothing lasts forever, does it.