Wednesday evening on the terrace.
Don't ask me why I celebrate Cinco de Mayo. Maybe because I have worked, in my New York gardening life, with many Mexicans. Very hard-working, but happy-to-party Mexicans. So perhaps it rubbed off. Being married to a Frenchman, it's hard to celebrate his country's defeat...well, not really.
I had a wonderful day. Gardening at the Brooklyn Botanic Garden with Sarah Owens, Rosarian and curator of the rose garden. After a hot but beautiful day planting some perennials, roses, and weeding, I was quite le tired, in a nice, physical way. It beats the keyboard.
So, coming home to my tiny terrace and its thirsty pots, giving them all a good, long drink, potting up some more small tomato seedlings and thinking about the Margaritas I was about to mix, was a pleasure.
As I write, this Wednesday evening, sirens howl - fire engine - some blocks away; the wind rustles the oaks across the road, traffic passes on Henry Street. My first cut roses of the year are on the terrace table, where we are about to eat, and I can actually smell them. Iceberg. Sage, thyme and chive flowers join them in a thin green crystal glass.
I nipped the middle leaves out of my summer savoury seedlings to encourage them to fluff out, and the nippings are part of the marinade for our grilled ribs.
In increments, life can be very good.