Sunday morning. TOH's off at his veterans game (should be finished in about 15 minutes); I've scoffed the last of the bread from yesterday's batch and put on some more. That bread will be used tonight to mop up the juices and gravy from last night's absolutely gorgeous supper of lamb shanks braised for hours in tomatoes, red wine, spiked with rosemary and thyme. The debris from that has been cleared, and the bins of vegetable peelings are waiting by the door for composting. I'm about to sling on some slobby clothes and do the rest of the garden chores that I couldn't get to last weekend, as well as grab some cuttings from the lavender and cedar to give to my award-winning jam suppliers in return for all the glorious preserves that they've given me over the last couple of years - indeed, my fridge is full of homemade bitter, thick marmalade; a lighter meyer lemon and vanilla one; and fig and peach jam. Those hopefully will go toward dessert with the homemade bread, if there's any left.
Time to get to it. Domestic bliss and all that. Of course, this is all the sweeter and calmer and more joyous because Spurs beat the Arse yesterday in their own manor. It's all about context.
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