Flowers in the house

Supper was late.

The kitchen was full of today's brick cake and the empty mason jars which I had strained and decanted - the black and red currant gins, the sumac-infused vodka, the wild black cherries. Everything was a little sticky. The jelly from the leftover alcoholic fruit was roiling on the stove beside the bolognese sauce for our spaghetti, and we still needed salad.

So I shot up to the roof farm while the pasta water was heating. Up there, after the storm, the rose was in bloom. Trying to pick it with my bare hands I was pricked, hard.  I shot back down again and reappeared with the sharp Felcos. Ha! In the napkin I carry with me on these sorties I heaped tomatoes and groundcheries and some basil and brought the bundle down, held cautiously around the soft flowers.

Made salad, cooked pasta, tested jelly, called the Frenchman, who uncorked the wine, fetched the cat...

I have not been true to my spring resolution. I had promised myself flowers in the house every week this year, but have either forgotten or been uninspired by local blooms. Until the terrace or roof help out.

So now that I have flowers I may play with Jane and her cohorts. A little late to that party, but, as we say at Africa's southern tip:

Agteros kom ook in die kraal.

That's a bit difficult to translate. Even the last ox finds shelter.

Hm. Not quite right. I am the ox, I am late, but I still make it to the flower party.

...hm.