I spent yesterday with a Canadian, appropriately enough. A small crowd of us thronged ewtikins' garden, to tame it into autumn. Lest you thought the earth was too round, I spend part of yesterday making a piece of it flat. She fed us tomatoey-nut stew over rice, and potatoes freshly dug up from her garden. I didn't stay long enough for soup or potato baking in the eventual charcoal-glow of the barbecue, but there was that too.
Nicest of all, she gave me a quince tree, an offshoot of one thriving in her bucket, an offshoot now bucketed and quivery in the breeze on my balcony. It may survive if it reroots successfully. ewtikins doesn't know how significant a quince tree is to me. In the flurry of yesterday, I never said. I met her after the Season of Quince, which began with a Jane Grigson chapter, and ended in an evening of tastes.
* He worked all weekend!