I grew up in the garden of my grandparents' house. Off the main road, down into the village, over the river and up the hill stand a pair of gateposts that let you into a world that knows nothing of modern life. It rambles quietly, laying out long sweeping lawns and dense wilderness. The Victorian walled garden is engorged with edibles: strawberries, peas, broad beans, runner beans, purple sprouting broccoli, yellow tomatoes, Jerusalem arthichokes, rhubarb...and as the garden bursts the house quietly crumbles; a prize racehorse still standing but without teeth.
My brother is having a BBQ. He's the greediest person I know and also one of the best cooks and the term 'eat, drink and be merry' could have been made especially for him. When I turn up the boy is cooking!
WHAT WE ATE: Jerk chicken, marinaded pork belly, spicy lamb burgers, meatballs, Sea Bream, sausages, potato salad, radish and lovage salad, tomato pasta salad, rice & peas, green salad.
WHO CAME: Loads of friends and family.
The sun had kind of disappeared but it was still warm enough to all be out on the portico, drinking rum punch, swaying to music and having a blissful day.
THE PUD: My mum made the most cushiony yellow lemon cake ever. You just wanted to grab it up in your hands and sink your teeth into it and then convince everyone else that it had never existed. I produced a batch of very fudgey brownies and a plate of Venezuelan truffles.