My lovely husband has green fingers.
We have damsons, we have capsicums, we have basil, we have lettuce.
My trug is full to brimming.
I have not bought salad from the shops for months.
It is bliss.
He is really green fingered. He has the knowledge; and by now the experience also. But mostly a talent and an instinct. For planning, for compost, for care and dedication. And the innate sense of what a plant needs. It is beyond me, but I recognise it.
I sent him a text last week, whilst he was interstate. To send him a snap, via my iPhone, of just a tiny portion of the tomato harvest. He was thrilled enough to reply to a text - a rarity, let me tell you. In one day, I picked over 4kg of perfect ripe tomatoes, bursting with warm flavour. And every day since, just more and more.
We have slow cooked tomatoes, on low overnight, to extract every last bit of sweet intensity they give.
Our home smells like an Italian pizza restaurant - all tomato and garlic and basil. Divine.
I love him. I love his garden. I love his gluts.