This morning the sky grew darker and darker until it eventually released so much rain you’d think it hadn’t rained for years. Victoria was startled by the thunders while William ensured he was out of sight as I approached the patio doors for a couple of pics. He probably feared I would send him outside for a toilet break... As is often the case at this time of year, the day later turned into something quite different, with clouds scuttling across the sky and quite a potent sunshine. It coincided with the arrival of my food order from Northern Harvest. I know I shouldn’t insist so, for it is not July yet, but I am so enamoured with tomatoes that I try and eat them all year round, even when Summer seems far, far away still.
As it happens, these are absolutely wonderful and flavoursome. Just the sight of them, still attached to the vine, with a whiff of fruit, grass and soil sent me back to the vegetable patch that my dad was maintaining when I was a child. I used to walk around the tall plants without a care in the world, snapping peas, pulling tomatoes and eating straight from the trees. I would often spot dad, the epytome of tidiness and precision as far as I am concerned, walking around the paths, picking pea shells I had dropped behind like a Greatel sans the gingerbread or the evil old woman. I suppose I already knew then I was born to be a vegetarian. With the tomatoes, I pulled up a large bunch of asparagus; they made me squeal like caviar would a Fortnum and Mason foodie. I like mine steamed, plunged in the very classic boiled egg sprinkled with white pepper. In fact, I may as well forfeit dinner out tonight and get steaming.
