Totes ridic

I took cuttings from the tomatoes I bought at the street fair, as I said the other day.  Five days later, roots were already coming out of the bottom of the compost from four of the seven and now they all need to be planted out.  A job for tomorrow, I hope, assuming the weather is suitable.  Everything is growing very well, after the cold spring and I think it’s true that a period of cold weather is good for a lot of plants.  The roses are fabulous now.

A friend who’s coming to supper on Thursday phoned, to ask if I minded her bringing her own food – she’s on a strict elimination diet, advised by her doctor, so doesn’t want to break it.  That’s fine of course as far as I’m concerned, though it’s not much fun for her.  I’m thinking, at present, of making spinach soufflé, as long as I don’t panic at the last minute-ness of it, with a salad; intentionally light.  It made me remember, years ago, our doctor discussing Weeza’s migraines, which she suffered from in her early teens.  He suggested keeping a food diary as his wife, as a result, had discovered that her occasional weekend migraines, always after a dinner party, were the result of drinking red wine and eating chocolate on the same day.  An association you might not notice unless you’d written everything down.  Weeza’s were nothing to do with food, as it happened, and cleared up and I don’t think she’s ever had one since, by the way.

Lovely Tim and I have been talking about the concert we went to at the Aldeburgh Festival last night, and then went on to live shows and the people we’d seen and heard over the years.  As so often, my breath is taken away at how we’re in harmony.  Ridic, darlings.  Esp at our age.

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