Postcards

My father asked my son to come out and do some gardening for him, and learn some stuff too. He paid him well, though I think he also got some good work done. 

And I was paid handsomely for my two there-and-back chauffering journeys in the world's best artichokes, and a bunch of perfect inky indigo-purple sweet peas with a little bit of pink, white and periwinkle thrown in. I love sweet pea, and now they sit on the table in the stripey blue vase I just bought in Flying Tiger for the incredible price of €2.50 and their heady scent is perfuming the kitchen. It mingled with the steaming artichoke and the garlic and herb butter sauce I made to go with them. A dizzying nostalgic combination that dragged me back to the summer kitchen of my childhood, and the simple but privileged joy of the space to grow flowers and fancy vegetables - and all the rest of the magic space I grew up in. I'm so glad my son gets to enjoy it before it's gone. 

I didn't have wine today, no wine on tap for me, though I have to say that the bottle of Sicilian white (a grape I've never heard of) I got in Aldi to last weekend, to put in the risotto, was excellent, and really did taste of honeysuckle. I should, um, get more. 

Each time I resolve to diet, I seem to end up overlaying it with resolutions to have butter sauce, and wine, and make ice cream, and CAKE. And it seems like such a good idea.