Why, o why does Sunday have to have such ghastly (beastly even..) weather? It's miserable outside and I feel a bit slighted. Like they (THEM) knew I would be dreadfully hungover, but still wanting to go to the farmers market and made it so dark as to be 6am all morning until now, it is a quarter past twelve and I've just finished breakfast. Deeply inconsiderate.
Mind you, I'm still in my dressing gown. It might in fact be a delightful spring shower; the birds seem happy enough. Nonetheless, I shan't know what it feels like to meander across the valley for tomatoes from as far (or near) as the Isle of Wight. No drizzle-sopped ankles within green rubber wellies, nor the slick, vague muddiness of reusable shopping handles and I try to wrestle great stalks of rhubarb into behaving with the potatoes. Indeed, no rhubarb or potatoes to start acting up at all. Because I have slept so late -- and I shall blame them (THEY) for the curtain of dank draped across my windows -- I shall have no such delights at all. I am working this afternoon and am thus going in the opposite direction.
A nuisance to be sure, but I would have had to have gone out and bought a pair of green rubber wellies for effect first, so perhaps they (THEM) have a point. I'm not nearly prepared enough for a jaunt in the drizzle. Perhaps they (THEM) merely wished for me to get myself sufficiently together so as to enjoy the experience more thoroughly. Ah. There you have it. I see clearly now that they (THEM) were only looking after my best interests in the first place. Good old them (THEY)!
Speaking of rhubarb, I've got a gorgeous recipe for Rhubarb and Strawberry Crumble, which I really need to leave here. It's an adaptation of the one my Mum used to pacify late spring pudding desires in her two small children and one quite grown-up husband. Indeed it was her Rhubarb and Strawberry Pie that brought cheers of delight to the table. (We, of course, didn't know at the time that rhubarb and strawberries have such wildly different seasons. Or at least, we didn't know they were supposed to and that one ought to harvest rhubarb in early April. We had it most of the spring, summer and early autumn because it took up most the of wall between our backyard and the people living next door to us.) My reasons for changing the recipe, even to this great length is that Rhubarb and Strawberry Pie is, bar none, the most delicious way to spend a summer evening. But as we're only just entering the warmer part of spring, crumble provides that extra comforting layer against the, albeit fraying, crispness of dusk.
I will post the recipe when I get home from work. One can't rush these things after all.
Comments