The laziness of summer days can be deliciously enervating. Only the bees are immune to this lassitude. August brings the humming noise of quietness to the garden which means that the last delinquent fledglings of this year are preparing to leave. In the winter ennui of January and February I’ll be chastising myself for not drinking up enough of this peaceful warmth. The truth is that this happiness cannot be tasted or consumed as it would be far too rich a dish. It is enough to be aware of its passing; of the fleeting moments of its existence.
The pleasure I enjoy from making food to eat, and taking pictures of it, allows me to have these extravagant thoughts that are as full of hot air as the cushion of puff pastry beneath this carnal pile of gaping tomatoes oozing gobs of oil mixed with their own sweet juices. When we eat food, like this, in our garden on a perfect summer evening we ingest some of the moment which will remain with us as an unspoiled memory, maybe even gaining in flavour over the passing years. To add to that flavour, we had white peach tarts for pudding.