market, runner, pesto

People and tomatoes at the Farmers' Market in Civic Way.

As I approach the bend in Mount Sion, I hear the clap, clap, clap of a runner coming towards me. Not knowing what to expect, for fear of collision,  I keep close to the hedge, which obscures my view. As I round the corner, I see that it is a man in shorts and trainers running in the road. A little strangely, he is carrying an open umbrella, which shields him from, what is only a light shower. Clap, clap clap the runner procedes on his way, his umbrella  held above his head like a standard.

Tonight pesto. This morning, I cut bunches of basil in the greenhouse. The scent rises around me and accompanies me home, across the road. I look forward to stripping the leaves from the stem and,  with a pestle, pounding them  together with pine kernels, garlic, grated Parmesan and Pecorino, mixed with olive oil in the larger of our two mortars. I could use a food processor but  that would mean sacrificing  another prolonged whiff of aromatic leaves.