Reading Marion Halligan's The Taste of Memory at the moment, which is more a memoir about gardening than food. It's perfect reading material for this warm wet Spring, with my own garden growing like topsy all around me.
The bearded irises flowered, the new white one for one brief but glorious day before torrential rain killed it. I don't know the name of the coppery coloured wonder above, but I was able to enjoy it for at least a week.
I have been determinedly continuing my new practice of only using flowers from our garden for the house, and this week's posy is a pleasing arrangement of ivy, jasmine, rosemary and gone-to-seed parsley all in a rustic jug found at the op shop recently.
I spent a goodly part of yesterday transplanting one of the three westringias from by the swing in the back to the bit of front garden by the driveway. This is a bit of previously ignored garden that until the drought broke, was barren, dry and brown, with earth packed so hard I bent two trowels in half once, trying to scrape a shallow hole to plant in. Now it's lovely diggable soil, so I have put in some grasses, and on the weekend before, a red cordyline which will contrast nicely (I hope) with the grey of the westringia.
The other horticultural inspiration of recent times comes from a visit last week tO the magnificent garden of Shadygrey, a garden full of roses and eucalypts, nooks and crannies and surprises around every bend. I didn't take a single photograph of her garden but snapped one or two in the house, however they remain trapped in my camera so I can't share them. Anyway I returned home full of renewed enthusiasm and immediately pruned the cistus and slashed the purple fountain grass and am even having thoughts of vegetables, which I haven't had since before the heartbreaking drought years. Shady has a Shetland pony plant whose name I've forgotten and I can hardly go to a nursery and ask for the shrub that starts life as a rabbit and ends up a small pony, so I hope she leaves a comment here, hint hint.
PS this post was written in bed, on the iPad, and boy is it tedious typing on this thing. Time for another page or two of Marion Halligan before lights out.