Everything I cooked in a week of rain

Last week it rained in Lisbon for seven days straight, which the radio described as “exceptional” and Dona Fernanda described as “a punishment”. I didn’t leave the flat much. I did, however, cook a great deal, and I wrote it all down, partly for you and partly so I could prove to Rosie that I ate vegetables.

Monday to Wednesday

Monday. The fridge was nearly empty and I wasn’t going out, so: a pan of onions cooked very slowly in olive oil until they were brown and jammy, a tin of chickpeas, a spoon of smoked paprika, two eggs cracked into the middle and lidded until just set. Eaten from the pan with yesterday’s bread. The windows steamed up and I felt very pleased with myself.

Tuesday. A dash downstairs to Senhor Abel, who had kale, carrots and a lecture about my umbrella. Made a big pot of bean and kale soup with a parmesan rind I’d been hoarding. It improved every day for the rest of the week, as soups do, like a slightly smug friend.

Wednesday. Bread day. I tried a no-knead loaf that I left proving by the oven because the rest of the flat was cold. It rose sideways, like a rugby ball, and tasted wonderful. Lunch was the end of it with butter and salt. Dinner was the soup again, plus a fried egg on top because I deserved it.

Thursday and Friday

Thursday. The low point. I ate crackers and a whole wedge of São Jorge cheese standing at the counter and called it lunch. In the evening I rallied: rice cooked in stock with peas from the freezer, lemon zest and a lot of black pepper. A risotto in spirit, if not in technique.

Friday. Supper club night, rain or no rain. Eight of us, damp coats piled on my bed. I made a big tray of chicken thighs roasted on potatoes, garlic and lemon, with olives thrown in for the last ten minutes. Ana brought a salad; João brought wine and a guitar nobody asked him to play. For pudding I made my grandmother’s lemon cake, which was gone before I’d sat down.

The weekend

Saturday. Leftovers dressed up: shredded chicken in a tortilla with the last of the olives, a quick pickle of red onion, a handful of coriander. Eaten on the floor by the heater while the rain ran down the skylight in sheets.

Sunday. Slow porridge with grated apple and cinnamon in the morning, then nothing until four, when I made a pot of tea and buttered toast with marmalade and finally — finally — saw a patch of blue over the castle. I went out without a coat just to prove a point. I came back in for the coat.

Looking back over the list, I’m struck by how little of it was planned. Most of it came from a nearly empty cupboard and the stubbornness that rain brings out in me. If there’s a lesson, it’s to keep onions, a tin of beans and a cheese rind in reserve, always. The weather will do the rest.