…and thyme rich

In my previous post I had availed myself of a metaphor which placed me in a kitchen, vigorously removing the seeds from a pomegranate with blows from a wooden spoon, whilst dressed in a white Dior sheath dress and which, not surprisingly, engendered some searching comments, one of which suggested that I might be a mixture of Jamie Oliver and Conchita Wurst and, as such, could make a mint. This missed career opportunity made me reflect on my lack of “mint” and, equally, on my wealth of thyme. Before you, or I, could say cherry tomatoes and buffalo mozzarella on a puff pastry base scattered with small branches of thyme, there it was, on a table in the garden, enhanced by a profusion of lavender in the background and still sitting on the handsome cloth that had carried it outside, piping hot, from the oven . Breathless and dressless stuff.