I am hungry. My guests are hungry. I should be cooking something. They have been sitting by the fire empty handed for a while, chatting amiably at first, increasingly jittery with every minute spent on an empty stomach and no whiff of food. An hour ago I turned my back on them and left them on their own, slowly sinking in the quick sands of stale talk.
I went into the kitchen and opened the fridge: an out of date egg in its carton on the top shelf; three shrivelled cherry tomatoes in their plastic pail by a single can of tonic; half a bag of frozen peas in the freezer. I let a beat pass, hoping the presses will yield more but to no avail: they could be the shelves on a bunker weeks after a nuclear holocaust. On tiptoe I try to reach a half empty packet of easy cook rice; the tips of my fingers hit the bumpy edge of a battered tin of tuna; a yellowing clove of garlic falls off like the tooth of an old dog. I take a deep breath: I could go to the shop but it is dark, cold, and the wind howls outside. My guests are waiting now longer than an hour: they will stir in anger and leave but I cannot move.
There is nothing for me to cook. I cannot cook.
A Fistful of Olives 