What is it about the first hot weather that always get people going crazy to barbecue. Frankly, the last thing I want to do for lunch on a hot day - there are too few of them to waste - is to stand with the sun on my back over a pile of intensely hot briquettes (or whatever) smelling the aroma of meat sizzling mingling with the sweat dropping off my forehead. Who wants all that cooked meat (and barbecues are mostly about meat, although some fish is actually just as good or better. But most of what people eat on barbecues is rubbish anyway.) Give me a nice salad or some meze and shady terrace anytime.
Dont get me wrong, I love cooking outdoors and do so at every opportunity. But to me, barbecues are best saved for warm evenings, when the sun is low in the sky or just setting, the fierce heat of the day has gone and appetites can be properly matched by the smell of smoke and grilling food. One of the best barbecues I've ever had was using a couple of disposable barbecues on the beach at Sennen Cove in Cornwall one June evening a couple of years ago. It was early evening, we needed our sweaters, the tide had gone out after a long hot day surfing, and we grilled local mackerel and chicken on skewers made from rosemary twigs. We played beach cricket in the twilight afterwards. All around us, other scattered groups were doing the same, the smoke of the barbecues and little fires drifting up and along the sands, everyone relishing the space on the beach that had been impossibly packed a few hours earlier. It was glorious.
And, sod the sun, you can barbecue in the rain. Maybe its just me, but I love warm rain on hot days, a combination you don't get much in their country, but is commonplace in warmer climates. Last Monday, the Bank Holiday, after a two days of warm weather, was a typically British summer muggy, cloudy day It was Max's 15th birthday and I'd been to the cinema with the boys and their mother, my ex, Marion to see Star Trek. (Excellent re-invention, actually. And I'm old enough to remember the original.) We were hoping the forecast rain would hold off, so that we could have a barbecue in my garden afterwards. When we came out of the cinema it had been raining, but the air temperature was possibly even warmer than earlier. There was a smell in the air that Marion said reminded her of the Med. So we had to barbecue. My garden was still, quiet and warm, with the birds singing evening songs. We ate sweetcorn, baked feta, my home made lamb koftas, chicken kebabs, made garlic brushetta by grilling bread on the barbie and toasted Max's birthday with some excellent M&S sparkling Burgundy. (Sorry about the plug, but its very nice) We survived the odd brief repeat shower of rain, sitting under the parasol and moving the barbecue under cover. And we sat talking by candlelight long after it was dark and the birds had gone quiet. It was not sunny, no-one was offered a blackened sausage or a still raw in the centre chicken drumstick and there wasn't a can of beer in sight. But it's what I call a barbecue.
Sunday, May 31, 2009
Friday, May 22, 2009
Elizabeth David
Today happens to be the 17th anniversary of the death in 1992 of the remarkable Elizabeth David, whose influence on what we eat now and the revolution in British cooking is immeasurable. I was made aware of the date when, by a curious co-incidence in the early hours of this morning, I randomly picked up an old copy of Convivium, a shortlived magazine-cum-book (think Granta or Readers Digest) which existed briefly in the early 1990's and whose 1993 inaugural edition, the one I was holding in my hands, was dedicated to David. It contained a fascinating series of pieces, adapted from the addresses given to her memorial service the previous autumn by some of those who knew her well. I re-read them with great pleasure, being reminded of David's dedication to stylish restraint and simple, elemental cooking - a dish of plain, grilled red peppers was a favourite - and that she considered herself first and foremost a writer, rather than a cook. She also abhorred the word 'foodie' which is deeply ironic considering that many of those who today described themselves as foodies - myself included - owe an enormous debt to David for changing the way we eat. Anyone wanting to know more about Davi's extraordinary life should read the fabulous (but curiously recipe free) biography by Artemis Cooper, Writing At The Kitchen Table.
In another strange co-incidence, earlier this week I had actually been discussing David's kitchen table with the great Prue Leith, another person who has done enormous amounts to drag British cooking out of its post-Second World War ration induced mire.
I was sitting next to Leith (or Prue as I now feel emboldened to call her, since we got on so well) at a magnificent seven course charity dinner at the Marriott Hotel, created by seven leading British chefs in aid of Hospitality Action, a charity that helps needy people associated with the catering trade. You can read my account of the meal in the Evening Standard website here: http://www.thisislondon.co.uk/standard/article-23694512-details/Great+British+Menu+chefs+cook+up+seven+course+feast/article.do
Stupidly, I didnt think to ask Prue, who knew David well, what she would have made of the elegantly constructed modern takes on British food - a haggis mousse and a verbena blancmange might have been a bit fussy for her, but I'm sure she would have enjoyed the halibut with cockles and the lamb baked in a pastry crust. But Prue did regale me with stories of how grumpy and rude David became in her later years, as well as being mostly drunk, something I thought Cooper rather played down. The stairs in her small Chelsea house, said Prue, were almost impossible to negotiate - piles of books on one side, cases of her favourite French white wines on the other.
Prue's best tale concern the heavy old French table on which David made the centrepiece of her kitchen, where she spent most of her days, writing at one end, cooking at the other. At the auction of her kitchen contents which followed David's death, Leith paid £1,100 for the table, by then much battered, stained and worn, complete with ancient crumbs embedded in its cracks. "I had to have it,'' she said, 'It was the table, the one she wrote one. I mean, this is part of food history. It was an iconic table.'' At the insistence of her husband, she had much of the dirt and grease scraped away, but it remained a treasure for some years. She admitted that at one point she had considered widening it, but was unable to find a piece of wood sufficiently thick.
Prue confided that a few years ago she was made an offer she simply could not refuse. She explained: "Jill Norman, [the cookery writer] another friend of mine and Elizabeths, confessed that her husband had set his heart on buying the table - for a decent sum - so that he could give it to Jill for her 60th birthday. Jill was Elizabeth's editor at Penguin and literary executor, so I couldn't refuse, could I?'' She didn't say how much she was paid for it, but clearly, every kitchen table has its price.
Coincidence and memories. So that's why tonight, in my kitchen, at my table, I'm going to raise a glass of fine French white wine and nibble one of her favourite Rokka crackers, in memory of the great Elizabeth David.
In another strange co-incidence, earlier this week I had actually been discussing David's kitchen table with the great Prue Leith, another person who has done enormous amounts to drag British cooking out of its post-Second World War ration induced mire.
I was sitting next to Leith (or Prue as I now feel emboldened to call her, since we got on so well) at a magnificent seven course charity dinner at the Marriott Hotel, created by seven leading British chefs in aid of Hospitality Action, a charity that helps needy people associated with the catering trade. You can read my account of the meal in the Evening Standard website here: http://www.thisislondon.co.uk/standard/article-23694512-details/Great+British+Menu+chefs+cook+up+seven+course+feast/article.do
Stupidly, I didnt think to ask Prue, who knew David well, what she would have made of the elegantly constructed modern takes on British food - a haggis mousse and a verbena blancmange might have been a bit fussy for her, but I'm sure she would have enjoyed the halibut with cockles and the lamb baked in a pastry crust. But Prue did regale me with stories of how grumpy and rude David became in her later years, as well as being mostly drunk, something I thought Cooper rather played down. The stairs in her small Chelsea house, said Prue, were almost impossible to negotiate - piles of books on one side, cases of her favourite French white wines on the other.
Prue's best tale concern the heavy old French table on which David made the centrepiece of her kitchen, where she spent most of her days, writing at one end, cooking at the other. At the auction of her kitchen contents which followed David's death, Leith paid £1,100 for the table, by then much battered, stained and worn, complete with ancient crumbs embedded in its cracks. "I had to have it,'' she said, 'It was the table, the one she wrote one. I mean, this is part of food history. It was an iconic table.'' At the insistence of her husband, she had much of the dirt and grease scraped away, but it remained a treasure for some years. She admitted that at one point she had considered widening it, but was unable to find a piece of wood sufficiently thick.
Prue confided that a few years ago she was made an offer she simply could not refuse. She explained: "Jill Norman, [the cookery writer] another friend of mine and Elizabeths, confessed that her husband had set his heart on buying the table - for a decent sum - so that he could give it to Jill for her 60th birthday. Jill was Elizabeth's editor at Penguin and literary executor, so I couldn't refuse, could I?'' She didn't say how much she was paid for it, but clearly, every kitchen table has its price.
Coincidence and memories. So that's why tonight, in my kitchen, at my table, I'm going to raise a glass of fine French white wine and nibble one of her favourite Rokka crackers, in memory of the great Elizabeth David.
Sunday, May 17, 2009
Rehabilitation
So, how is the old body going, not quite four weeks after my emergency operation to remove a troublesome gall bladder.....?
The good news is, after three weeks of an excruciatingly dry and often painful throat, caused by the candidiasis I contracted as a result of the anti-biotics I was being given, I've got about 99pc of my tastebuds back and I've stopped being woken up during the night by a mouth that feels as though the entire Sahara desert has taken up residence there. So, I can taste wine and coffee and a few other things properly for the first time in what seems like ages. Which is good because I've got a positive ocean of white wine blocking my hall waiting for my recovery so I can organise a tasting for a Ten Best White Wines column I've got to write for the Independent. And I'm going to relish every single mouthful of the seven course charity dinner, created by some of the country's best chefs, that I'm attending on behalf of the Standard tomorrow night. Could not have come at a better time....
Physically, things are a bit mixed. I'm still a bit sore around the wound. And I've some pains still deep in my lungs, presumably a hangover from the pneumonia. But I had a busy time last weekend, going for a long gentle walk and trimming a hedge on Sunday without too much trouble. I can walk up stairs, but still get very tired easily: I was just ready to collapse last night after a fairly limited jaunt around Tesco (I know, but its the closest and there was stuff I needed all on one place. There are situations when you dont have the time or energy to trot round the bijou delis of Muswell Hill, none of whom, so far as I know, sell soap powder and dishwasher salts. But I gave myself a good ethical slap). I might still be suffering from three very hectic working days last week - one teaching at Goldsmiths, followed by a busy evening, then two at the Standard. It wasn't so much the work that was exhausting, but the up to 90mins commute both ways - bus and tubeX3. Plus the fact that various roadworks and bus diversions meant that I had to walk some of the way home each night. Sod's law.
By the end of those days I was pretty knackered but was still determined to achieve my aim of going swimming on Friday evening, now that the scars have begun to fade to the point where they won't frighten the kids. Now I love swimming with a passion. I normally swim at least once or twice a week, 30-40 lengths a time at a reasonable pace and have done for years.It is the most therapuetic and relaxing of exercises and one which anyone of any age, including the very elderly and the disabled can participate. It's rhythmic, repetitive nature settles the mind as well as the body and I've solved many of life's major problems - difficult career choices, what to cook for dinner etc - during the course of a long swim. In recent years, when I have had some problems with my feet (plantar fascitis - no, don't ask) my knees (playing tennis) and my back (squash and badminton on the same day) swimming was the only exercise I could do. And so it is now.
I first stated swimming in the early 80's when I moved into a flat opposite some baths and decided to take full advantage. I soon got my completely unfit, twenty-something, beer guzzling one-pack of Gitanes a day, body up to 100 lengths a week and felt very proud.
I got out of the regular swimming baths habit when I moved to London in 1986 although I always swam and snorkelled enthusiastically when I was near warm seas. It was about ten years, when I my sons were old enough to start swimming lessons and I could go and do a few lengths while they being taught, before I got back into swimming regularly again. And I'm immensely proud of the fact that both my sons are now regular, strong swimmers, competing for their local club, Anaconda, in countless galas. Both have many medals to their names . Leo is club boys captain, has competed at regional level and is now also a qualified lifeguard. He trains, when not studying for exams, up to six nights a week - sometimes competing in a gala on the seventh. When I boast I can still swim 50 lengths in under 35 mins he scoffs, pointing out that he does that in half the time. For a warm up.
But Leo and I both get grumpy if we go a few days without a swim. Which I was I was determined to do a few lengths on Friday night. I managed 18, rather stately lengths, with some pauses at either end. It was blissful. I would have done more, but wanted to see what effect it had on my body. I had a good session in the steam room afterwards, which helps sore muscles and felt fine.
Saturday however, as I said, I felt quite tired and a bit stiff all over. I certainly don't feel like another walk today, although I might tackle the other hedge. I've spoken to two people this week (you get to compare this kind of thing) who told me how long it took them to get over major operations. So, I have to resign myself to the fact that its a longer road than I might imagine. But I'm looking forward to Monday night's dinner and then Tuesday night back in the swimming baths again. And I'm determined to get up to the 50 lengths mark again - no matter how long it takes.
The good news is, after three weeks of an excruciatingly dry and often painful throat, caused by the candidiasis I contracted as a result of the anti-biotics I was being given, I've got about 99pc of my tastebuds back and I've stopped being woken up during the night by a mouth that feels as though the entire Sahara desert has taken up residence there. So, I can taste wine and coffee and a few other things properly for the first time in what seems like ages. Which is good because I've got a positive ocean of white wine blocking my hall waiting for my recovery so I can organise a tasting for a Ten Best White Wines column I've got to write for the Independent. And I'm going to relish every single mouthful of the seven course charity dinner, created by some of the country's best chefs, that I'm attending on behalf of the Standard tomorrow night. Could not have come at a better time....
Physically, things are a bit mixed. I'm still a bit sore around the wound. And I've some pains still deep in my lungs, presumably a hangover from the pneumonia. But I had a busy time last weekend, going for a long gentle walk and trimming a hedge on Sunday without too much trouble. I can walk up stairs, but still get very tired easily: I was just ready to collapse last night after a fairly limited jaunt around Tesco (I know, but its the closest and there was stuff I needed all on one place. There are situations when you dont have the time or energy to trot round the bijou delis of Muswell Hill, none of whom, so far as I know, sell soap powder and dishwasher salts. But I gave myself a good ethical slap). I might still be suffering from three very hectic working days last week - one teaching at Goldsmiths, followed by a busy evening, then two at the Standard. It wasn't so much the work that was exhausting, but the up to 90mins commute both ways - bus and tubeX3. Plus the fact that various roadworks and bus diversions meant that I had to walk some of the way home each night. Sod's law.
By the end of those days I was pretty knackered but was still determined to achieve my aim of going swimming on Friday evening, now that the scars have begun to fade to the point where they won't frighten the kids. Now I love swimming with a passion. I normally swim at least once or twice a week, 30-40 lengths a time at a reasonable pace and have done for years.It is the most therapuetic and relaxing of exercises and one which anyone of any age, including the very elderly and the disabled can participate. It's rhythmic, repetitive nature settles the mind as well as the body and I've solved many of life's major problems - difficult career choices, what to cook for dinner etc - during the course of a long swim. In recent years, when I have had some problems with my feet (plantar fascitis - no, don't ask) my knees (playing tennis) and my back (squash and badminton on the same day) swimming was the only exercise I could do. And so it is now.
I first stated swimming in the early 80's when I moved into a flat opposite some baths and decided to take full advantage. I soon got my completely unfit, twenty-something, beer guzzling one-pack of Gitanes a day, body up to 100 lengths a week and felt very proud.
I got out of the regular swimming baths habit when I moved to London in 1986 although I always swam and snorkelled enthusiastically when I was near warm seas. It was about ten years, when I my sons were old enough to start swimming lessons and I could go and do a few lengths while they being taught, before I got back into swimming regularly again. And I'm immensely proud of the fact that both my sons are now regular, strong swimmers, competing for their local club, Anaconda, in countless galas. Both have many medals to their names . Leo is club boys captain, has competed at regional level and is now also a qualified lifeguard. He trains, when not studying for exams, up to six nights a week - sometimes competing in a gala on the seventh. When I boast I can still swim 50 lengths in under 35 mins he scoffs, pointing out that he does that in half the time. For a warm up.
But Leo and I both get grumpy if we go a few days without a swim. Which I was I was determined to do a few lengths on Friday night. I managed 18, rather stately lengths, with some pauses at either end. It was blissful. I would have done more, but wanted to see what effect it had on my body. I had a good session in the steam room afterwards, which helps sore muscles and felt fine.
Saturday however, as I said, I felt quite tired and a bit stiff all over. I certainly don't feel like another walk today, although I might tackle the other hedge. I've spoken to two people this week (you get to compare this kind of thing) who told me how long it took them to get over major operations. So, I have to resign myself to the fact that its a longer road than I might imagine. But I'm looking forward to Monday night's dinner and then Tuesday night back in the swimming baths again. And I'm determined to get up to the 50 lengths mark again - no matter how long it takes.
Thursday, May 7, 2009
stomach pains and taste buds
I should be updating this blog more often, but the last few months have been terribly busy, so that writing in any personal way has had to take a back seat to the demands of work. I see now that the last time I wrote was in December, when Fifi, my cat died, which was terribly sad and cast a real pall over Christmas. We all still miss her terribly. Sometimes I still think I hear the sound of the bell on her collar, which tinkled as she padded around the house. Her ashes, in a nice little wooden casket, sit on the mantlepiece in the front room. Yes, I know. But there they are.
So...where where we? Sitting next to my keyboard is a little plastic bottle contained four brownish stones, gleaming and polished. They could be waiting to be made up into some kind of jewellery -drop earrings or a nice broach. Perhaps that's what I will do with them. They are just some of the forty-plus gallstones I'd been carrying around inside me, my gall bladder acting as a kind of bag of marbles, and which were taken out of me in an emergency operation more than two weeks ago now and from which I'm still recovering.
I'd been having intermittent gallstones over the past few years: as the stone passed down the bile duct, a brief period of spasmodic, intense pain in the righthand side of the stomach, just below the rib cage, followed by 24 hours of feeling a bit grotty and then perfectly alright the next day. My consultant said not to bother about having the gall bladder out unless the attacks became more frequent. Two weeks ago, on a Saturday night, I had the first attack for almost two years. This time the pain didnt abate after a couple of hours. This time it went on and on, reaching peaks I just didn't know how to endure. After about three hours, desperate for help, I went to the casualty department where I was pumped full of pain-killers. When it began to ease, they sent me home. The next day, as previously, I had a slight fever. But this time, it didnt go away and the pain in my stomach stayed. After two days of rising temperature, I went back to the hospital, where to cut a long story short, I had an emergency op to take out the by now infected gall bladder the next afternoon. Which is when things really began to go wrong.
Firstly, the gall bladder was so big and bad, they could not use the normal keyhole surgery techniques to get it out and had to go to full slice me open mode, so the whole operation took two and a half hours. Secondly, as I was going under the aneasthetic, as I later learnt, I choked, bringing up some of my stomach contents, when then went down the pipe into my lungs, causing aspirational pneumonia, as its called. Thirdly, when they brought me to consciousness, my lungs suffered a reactive spasm and I couldn't get any air into them. I was put back under anaesthetic and woke up six hours later in intensive care, attached to every monitor, drip and drain you could imagine. And still with a bloody great tube down my throat.
After a very uncomfortable night under heavy sedation, they took the tube out the following morning. I spent two days in intensive care and a week on a main ward. It was three days before I could survive without the morphine drip, four days before I could walk unaided and five days before my lungs were strong enough to breath without oxygen. On the sixth day, I developed candidias in my throat, which was due to the anti-biotics that were being inject into my veins every few hours. Candidiasis is basically thrush and is the worst, driest sore throat you could imagine, causes a terrible tickling cough - not v good if you have stitches -and severe pains every time you swallow. Cue more drugs to cure that.
I came out last thursday, after ten days. My surgeon, who's poked around an open stomach or two, said my gall bladder was one of the worst he had seen. There's still pain around the stitches and deep in my lungs and the candidiasis is taking a long time to go. I can't sleep in any other position than flat on my back. Which means I dont sleep, much. I feel pretty weak most of the time. It will, I'm told, be several weeks before I can resume proper exercise or swimming, which puts paid to my ambition to take part in the Crouch End 10k later this month. My taste buds are mostly fucked for a while - wine and coffee taste terrible - my appetite is a bit lacking, although I eat once food is put in front of me. And I cant bend over or stretch very much. I'm not complaining about this, it just happened.
The good thing is that I dont have to worry about changing my diet. We can, it seems do without these troublesome organs. Neither, according to my surgeon, can I attribute what happened in any way to lifestyle factors. Gall bladders just go wrong, no-one quite knows why.
And like everyone else who experiences the NHS from the er, consumers' point of view, I came away utterly in awe of some of the nurses - their expertise (don't ever, ever, let a junior doctor starting poking around trying to get a needle into the veins on the back of your hand) their endless patience with difficult and demanding patients and their ability to work incredibly long hours and remain alert and cheerful. It made some of my twelve hour shifts as night editor of the Independent seem child's play. As for hospital food, well, I'll get back to that another day.
As I said, stuff happens. I'm not whining, just getting it all down while its still fresh and to help me keep my writing hand in. And although I was far from being in a seriously life threatening situation, I'm aware that sometimes we get forced out of of our comfort zones. Just a tad more aware of some of the realities of life. So that's why I'm particularly relishing the bursting, vibrant greener-than-green leaves of this spring, the remaining blossom, the sunshine, and, most of all, the birdsong in my garden in the early evening. I'm going to try and have a good summer.
So...where where we? Sitting next to my keyboard is a little plastic bottle contained four brownish stones, gleaming and polished. They could be waiting to be made up into some kind of jewellery -drop earrings or a nice broach. Perhaps that's what I will do with them. They are just some of the forty-plus gallstones I'd been carrying around inside me, my gall bladder acting as a kind of bag of marbles, and which were taken out of me in an emergency operation more than two weeks ago now and from which I'm still recovering.
I'd been having intermittent gallstones over the past few years: as the stone passed down the bile duct, a brief period of spasmodic, intense pain in the righthand side of the stomach, just below the rib cage, followed by 24 hours of feeling a bit grotty and then perfectly alright the next day. My consultant said not to bother about having the gall bladder out unless the attacks became more frequent. Two weeks ago, on a Saturday night, I had the first attack for almost two years. This time the pain didnt abate after a couple of hours. This time it went on and on, reaching peaks I just didn't know how to endure. After about three hours, desperate for help, I went to the casualty department where I was pumped full of pain-killers. When it began to ease, they sent me home. The next day, as previously, I had a slight fever. But this time, it didnt go away and the pain in my stomach stayed. After two days of rising temperature, I went back to the hospital, where to cut a long story short, I had an emergency op to take out the by now infected gall bladder the next afternoon. Which is when things really began to go wrong.
Firstly, the gall bladder was so big and bad, they could not use the normal keyhole surgery techniques to get it out and had to go to full slice me open mode, so the whole operation took two and a half hours. Secondly, as I was going under the aneasthetic, as I later learnt, I choked, bringing up some of my stomach contents, when then went down the pipe into my lungs, causing aspirational pneumonia, as its called. Thirdly, when they brought me to consciousness, my lungs suffered a reactive spasm and I couldn't get any air into them. I was put back under anaesthetic and woke up six hours later in intensive care, attached to every monitor, drip and drain you could imagine. And still with a bloody great tube down my throat.
After a very uncomfortable night under heavy sedation, they took the tube out the following morning. I spent two days in intensive care and a week on a main ward. It was three days before I could survive without the morphine drip, four days before I could walk unaided and five days before my lungs were strong enough to breath without oxygen. On the sixth day, I developed candidias in my throat, which was due to the anti-biotics that were being inject into my veins every few hours. Candidiasis is basically thrush and is the worst, driest sore throat you could imagine, causes a terrible tickling cough - not v good if you have stitches -and severe pains every time you swallow. Cue more drugs to cure that.
I came out last thursday, after ten days. My surgeon, who's poked around an open stomach or two, said my gall bladder was one of the worst he had seen. There's still pain around the stitches and deep in my lungs and the candidiasis is taking a long time to go. I can't sleep in any other position than flat on my back. Which means I dont sleep, much. I feel pretty weak most of the time. It will, I'm told, be several weeks before I can resume proper exercise or swimming, which puts paid to my ambition to take part in the Crouch End 10k later this month. My taste buds are mostly fucked for a while - wine and coffee taste terrible - my appetite is a bit lacking, although I eat once food is put in front of me. And I cant bend over or stretch very much. I'm not complaining about this, it just happened.
The good thing is that I dont have to worry about changing my diet. We can, it seems do without these troublesome organs. Neither, according to my surgeon, can I attribute what happened in any way to lifestyle factors. Gall bladders just go wrong, no-one quite knows why.
And like everyone else who experiences the NHS from the er, consumers' point of view, I came away utterly in awe of some of the nurses - their expertise (don't ever, ever, let a junior doctor starting poking around trying to get a needle into the veins on the back of your hand) their endless patience with difficult and demanding patients and their ability to work incredibly long hours and remain alert and cheerful. It made some of my twelve hour shifts as night editor of the Independent seem child's play. As for hospital food, well, I'll get back to that another day.
As I said, stuff happens. I'm not whining, just getting it all down while its still fresh and to help me keep my writing hand in. And although I was far from being in a seriously life threatening situation, I'm aware that sometimes we get forced out of of our comfort zones. Just a tad more aware of some of the realities of life. So that's why I'm particularly relishing the bursting, vibrant greener-than-green leaves of this spring, the remaining blossom, the sunshine, and, most of all, the birdsong in my garden in the early evening. I'm going to try and have a good summer.
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