How does your garden grow? Well I'm not quite the 'Mary, Mary quite contrary' of nursery rhyme fame but I'm thinking I should be. The veg garden (ho, ho, my weed patch) has produced one or two decent dinners but not, alas, this time. Everything seems to be in miniature. Or eaten by caterpillars. Humph. Mind you I cannot claim to have gardened it, per se, merely sighed over it as one would over a slightly disobedient child. I slink back to the kitchen with my shameful handful. But there are four leeks (the width of my index finger) and so it is leek and smoked bacon risotto for supper tonight. Hurrah! A triumph out of a disaster- the story of my life.
The Moth magazine came on Friday. It is a wonderful magazine- subtly designed and filled with poetry, fiction and art. Each page gives something insightful or thought provoking or shocking. And it's Irish, in the gentlest meaning of the word. It would make a wonderful gift-especially for loved ones who are far from home.
Dala Horse of Swedish
culture. I love the worn wood, paint barely there, loved for generations. I imagine him tucked under a child's arm, the main character in a thousand childhood games, he speaks of love, the ultimate child's toy.