Today's poppy with a bud just about to open. In the bud, as fine as tissue paper but flexible in a way that paper cannot be, are the folded petals and stamens, carpels and ovary, the present and the future, in a miracle of packaging.
There was a time, when I was young, when suddenly everyone wanted brown chicken eggs. White eggs for no good reason, except perhaps in parallel with the dieticians' love affair with brown bread, were out. Now, nearly all eggs seem to be brown. One can only assume that chickens are bred to produce, as far as possible and regardless of any reason directly connected with healthy eating, only brown eggs. Two white eggs which come into the house are, therefore, a source of surprise and pleasure, miracles of survival, evidence of an aesthetic rebellion, of nature and common sense fighting back.
This afternoon I examine the broadbeans. The pods have begun to show where the flowers have withered and fallen. I detach one, a few millemeters long. There is no sign of beans in it. I take a contemplative bite. As one might expect, it tastes fresh and green with a characteristic bitterness hinting at the seeds to come in their little grey jackets. But the pod is sweet and succulent. You could make a remarkable, though prodigal, salad with several of them, newly cut rocket leaves and, following a current fashion, baby peas just out of the pod, and a few, curling pea tendrils.