Making butter from scratch (for the first time in my life!!) turned into an unexpected experiment in physics, astrology, and the patience Saturn demands, And love. A kitchen experiment in physics, persistence, and love. That was my life yesterday. And I’m starfting to realise it really is my life all the way through. Goddess bless my Saturn return.

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Lots to think about. So many things have changed–and will be changing. I’m happy to be the kind of person who knows when to move on and when to stay put.

When I did my teacher training in the UK, I qualified to teach English — though as an American, that felt almost like an act of rebellion. I’d imagined myself guiding students through Shakespeare, but my highest SAT scores were actually in maths and science. I could explain Newton’s laws and rip through calculus long before I could analyse iambic pentameter. Still, I loved words, and over time I realised they were just another kind of equation — a way of tracing the motion between thought and feeling, between what we know and what we dare to imagine. I wanted to be a teacher. I wanted to be a journalist so teaching English seemed to bridge my interests.

That’s what has always fascinated me: how science explains how things move, and language explains why they matter. I did eventually find my way to the laboratory. And now it looks like I’m heading back!!

Err. Maybe.

When I taught physics–I could never stay on one topic for too long–I used to tell my students that the laws of the universe apply everywhere — in galaxies, in classrooms, and even in kitchens. The same forces that hold the planets in orbit are at work when you stir soup, boil water, or churn cream into butter. The kitchen, in its own quiet way, is a universe in miniature, full of motion, matter, heat, and transformation.

Yesterday reminded me of that truth. After a long morning of writing my next book (bear with me Margaret!!!!), I decided — for reasons I can’t fully explain — to make butter from scratch. An alchemical pull to observe change. I could have gone to the shop, of course. That would have been the efficient, modern thing to do. But something in me wanted to reconnect with the process. Perhaps it was Saturn whispering about patience and time. Perhaps it was the teacher in me — the physicist and the poet — curious about what change really looks like up close. Maybe there was a deeper, internal pull.

So I bought some cream and began churning. My daughter, home between long shifts as a paramedic and about to move into her own place, joined me. We turned on some music — Amy Winehouse, Janis Joplin, Elton John, Culture Club, and Mika’s Grace Kelly (my kitchen, my playlist!!!). We joked and reminisced.

The hours passed. The cream thickened into heavy whipping cream — rich, sweet, but still refusing to become butter. Newton would have nodded knowingly: an object at rest tends to stay at rest unless acted upon by an outside force. And so, the cream waited.

I had to see a client, so I followed the advice to leave it overnight. Sometimes both matter and people need time to rest.

The next morning, it was cold and unresponsive. My daughter teased that it might be a lost cause. But the scientist in me wasn’t ready to give up. I warmed a little water in a pan, set the bowl above it, and began to stir again.

At first, nothing seemed to happen. Then the mixture grew glossier, the rhythm steadier, and tiny golden globules began to rise to the surface — small particles of potential drawn together by a quiet kind of attraction. With each turn, they gathered into larger shapes, their boundaries softening, finding cohesion where there had once been resistance. The buttermilk slipped away, the solids held firm, and in an instant, the transformation was complete.

It was mesmerising — watching matter decide what to hold on to and what to release. The same invisible balance that binds stars together was suddenly there, in my kitchen, in my hands.

That’s what Saturn teaches too. Transformation rarely announces itself. It happens slowly, through repetition, through showing up even when nothing seems to change. You work, you wait, you wonder if you’ve wasted your time — until, all at once, you see that every turn of the whisk was necessary. So this morning I had fresh butter on my toast.

Of course, there’s always another step. I’ll take this butter and turn it into ghee, heating it again to separate the clear golden fat from what’s left behind. More patience. More attention. More quiet work. Saturn always asks for refinement — not punishment, but perfection born of care. My daughter could have fresh ghee for the chicken curry she will make from scratch–no shortcuts in this household!

And my daughter’s curry was beautiful, the rice (my specialty) came out perfectly, and as we sat down together, I realised what we’d made wasn’t just food. It was a memory. A shared act of creation. She’s nearing her own Saturn Return now, ready to move into her own space, and I’ve been quietly grieving that. But maybe that’s the rhythm of it all — the pull and release, the coming together and letting go.

When I look back, I see that my life’s work has always been about translation — not from one language to another, but between worlds: physics and poetry, science and astrology, matter and meaning. Whether I’m teaching, writing, or standing at the stove, I’m always trying to show that everything — even a bowl of cream — responds to heat, time, and intention.

The universe, it seems, repeats itself in every scale: the orbit of a planet, the swirl of a spoon, the turn of a mother’s hand.

Maybe that’s the real lesson — that creation doesn’t only happen in laboratories or observatories. It happens right here, in the quiet fusion of work and love, in the small galaxies we build every day.

I’ll be returning to the laboratory with Steve Judd and Rick Levine as I discuss “Herschel, Uranus, and Mary Shelley’s Vision of Horror” — how discovery, creation, and transformation echo through science and myth alike. It’s on stage in central London on 10 November. I won’t be making butter but I will be talking about transformation. You can buy tickets here

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If reflections like this speak to you — if you’ve ever felt that science and astrology tell the same story in different languages — join one of my classes and learn how planetary cycles mirror learning cycles, how time shapes growth, and how to guide others through their Saturn Returns and Jupiter years