It happened. The transplanted Brooklyn Abraham Darby is in bloom (it arrived bare root in 2012 - and was my second A. D. The first didn't make it). It is one of two survivors of That Winter (the other is Windermere, and I wasn't mad about that rose: Windermere was a bit of a wuss in its pot high above Henry Street - too hot, I think. Now, with four hours of sun (it hurts me to say it) it looks quite dewy and lush).
The sun starts to touch the Harlem terrace around midday, and instantly the Abraham Darby droops in the sudden shock of heat. Late July will be interesting.
We had supper outside, eating some potted smoked trout on fire-grilled bread while we waited for the lamb chops to cook with their terrace herbs: marjoram, oregano, and thyme.
Our little black friend joined us.
Yes, we shared.