摘要：It may be the silky yellow of the eggs she whips up for a soufflé to serve at the ladies lunch. The deep colour reminds her of island hues in frangipanis, and loquats before they turn orange. The way yolks slip through the steel hand beater, wobbly as the suns she drew as a child, escape from any lines. Or, maybe it is the Spode she was using with its petite pink roses, all ordered, precise, remind her of oleanders she strung on ‘shooter’ stems with May made a necklace she wore for the day.
