There’s always a story to the best meals, isn't there? and the best dinners create as well as build on them, in leaps and bounds and by stealth. There are the myths (did dad really always sneakily grab twice as many roast potatoes as everyone else then look askance when called on it? Did I … Continue reading Seeing out the old, in the shadow of the new
Wow. I wish I’d been strolling down Via Galvani to smell the sizzling — while my stomach often rumbles for sage leaves fried just so, I strip the plants even more often to make tiny cups of soothing sage tea. When the annual summer transhumance (Birmingham to Testaccio) happens properly, a pot of sage for the windowsill (no balcony. Sigh) is one of our first purchases…
There is something forgotten and faded about sage, its musty nature reminiscent of somewhere that’s been shut up for too long, its dusty-green hue like something dulled by too much sunlight. Musty and dusty, lemon and camphour tinged, soft as moleskin yet rugged as my removal man, sage is one of my favourite herbs.
It had only been shuttered up for three months, but our new flat had a sage-like feel to it before I flung open the wooden shutters and windows on Saturday. I wonder if that was the reason I bought the plant? An unconscious herbal response to our new home! It’s the first of many pots that will eventually line our long, narrow balcony, providing me with kitchen herbs and Luca plenty of leaf-tugging and pot-pulling temptation.
Ignorning all advice, sage and otherwise, opting instead for the furious adrenaline fueled frenzy that spontaneously erupts when you leave…
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