Being fifty-something, I love the joy of exploring a well-loved garden even though my own little piece of the great outdoors is much-neglected. You see, I’m an incidental gardener. I wish it wasn’t so. But it is. Most of the year my garden fends for itself, passing from season to season with very little attention.… Continue reading The incidental gardener
Being fifty-something, I love an excuse to wrestle an ageing kitchen appliance from the depths of the darkest corner cupboard in my kitchen. No. Really. I do. I wrote about my enlightenment on this topic over on this post: If it Ain’t Broke. Ever since, I’ve been treating my Breville Kitchen Wizz with fondness… Continue reading Moi-made hummus … a three-way affair
Being fifty-something, I’ve got a lot photographs. Not the digital kind (though I’ve got my fair share of those, too). I mean the real shebang, The dusty old printed kind. I’m shite at cataloguing them into albums (or frames) so they float around in boxes and tubs and tins. They have a life of their… Continue reading When will I ever grow up?
Being fifty-something, I grew up in a house where bottling with your Fowlers Preserving Kit was de rigueur. The backyard was full of fruit trees and mum made sure they lasted all year long. I’m not a bottler myself, but I still can’t go past a Fowlers bottle (or jar). I found this one a… Continue reading Nothing like … a candle in the wind
Being fifty-something, I’m keenly aware that every family has its own lexicon, its customised style of verbalisation that connects with no one in the outside world. It’s our secret code … and we’re getting better at it with age. When we get gabbling in our family-speak, we might as well be conversing in Vulcan. No… Continue reading The peculiar language of families