CdP
30 March 2009
This evening for dinner C and I had risotto with broccoli, out of the garden. And rhubarb, out of the garden. And the thermometre on the terrace said the temperature today had gone up to 21 degrees. And the garden is full of flowers – most of them, admittedly, unbidden, but joyously beautiful nonetheless.
Can we have turned a corner? It is so odd to think that on March 21 – that’s nine days ago – we had a blizzard. And that just a couple of days ago we were being pelted by hail. Not that the way ahead is all roses: the forecast for the next 15 days is a litany of thunderstorms. But all the signs of seasonal change are there: my troglodytic daughter finally venturing outside, Latin books in hand, wearing a short short skirt; giving the lawn its first mow; struggling through exploding weeds to get into the tool shed in the chicken house. And if, between the downpours, I can spend hours like this afternoon – outside, blissfully warm, raking away the last leaves, scraping the dead winter grass out of the lawn, fertilizing in the desperate hope that one particularly dead-looking slope will suddenly spring back to green green life – then I can take the storms too.
If only, then, we weren’t heading down to Rome tomorrow. Our apartment is empty once again and C and L are putting pressure on me. Slightly less than usual, I must say. In the past there was no way that C would have agreed to an ‘unnecessary’ 24 hours in the country, but here we are, happily ensconsed when she could have fled. Is this a sign of mellowing?
If only, then, we weren’t heading down to Rome tomorrow. Our apartment is empty once again and C and L are putting pressure on me. Slightly less than usual, I must say. In the past there was no way that C would have agreed to an ‘unnecessary’ 24 hours in the country, but here we are, happily ensconsed when she could have fled. Is this a sign of mellowing?
As for L, before he sped off to Naples for work this morning, he was busily calculating just how long he could bear to be separated from his herb garden. Of course, I’m under no illusions: the moment those two city beasts get back to the big smoke, the country will slide way back down towards the bottom of their list of pressing concerns. In the mean time however, I’m enjoying the way our rural life is gradually getting under their skin.
L’s herb garden must surely be the most researched bit of terrain ever. He has finally planted his seeds, in soil with carefully adjusted quantities of compost and sand and manure and… you name it. I suspect he may have been over-generous with the seeds given the size of the pots, and their winter raincoats (all right, I admit I told him to do that, but only to stop him fretting about it being too cold) are perhaps going a bit too far. But I’m sure in the end it will turn out spectacular.
L’s herb garden must surely be the most researched bit of terrain ever. He has finally planted his seeds, in soil with carefully adjusted quantities of compost and sand and manure and… you name it. I suspect he may have been over-generous with the seeds given the size of the pots, and their winter raincoats (all right, I admit I told him to do that, but only to stop him fretting about it being too cold) are perhaps going a bit too far. But I’m sure in the end it will turn out spectacular.