Unlike their supermarket equivalents, the carrots and turnips from the garden, are marred by the occasional worm hole and come in different shapes and sizes. I cut round the holes and chop them into equal cubes. I soften these in a deep frying pan with olive oil, some finely chopped shallots, and seasoning. Next are added this morning's crop of little green and yellow courgettes sliced into tidy disks and these too are sweated for a little until the final stage of the dish, which is to add a liberal quantity of home made chicken stock, and some basil leaves. The heat is turned up and the stock is reduced while the vegetables continue to cook. In a few minutes the stock has become an unctuous glaze in which the vegetables rest. The dish goes well with grilled chicken. If I had had a bottle of dry Alsace Riesling, that is what we would have drunk with it, but the last one had gone, alas.
At the corner of a lawn in front of one of the houses in Mount Sion a little fat Bhudda has appeared to turn our minds to higher things.
As I pass an open window I hear a woman's prolonged laughter, then catch sight of her, smiling, phone in hand; the laughter continues, much as an engine may continue turning after it has been switched off.
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