I stand in the shower as the hot water prickles on my skin and think how I really am not good at gardening and I would much rather be in the kitchen, waiting for my Italian green thumbed man to come in with a handful of forgotten treasure potatoes or a first strawberry promising summer.
While I wait for him to finish off the weeds I go to the kitchen to attack the remains of last night's dinner, finding a gravy tidemark around the rim of the washing up bowl where I'd left the roasting rack to soak.
I try to make my knife and fork like the jaws of a cat, a savvy butcher, picking every last speck of flesh from the chicken carcass; some on a blue plate for a leftover salad lunch, some in a white bowl for a later risotto, some in the compost bin, too greasy and gristly for anything else.
Outside, dandilion heads are falling, severed with a small blade while inside I finish the job with scissors, my favourite kitchen friends that I use for everything from slicing slipperly spring onions to dividing up hot pizza straight from the oven.
We sit down to our green and white salads, perfumed with lemon oil, speckled with sunflower seeds and on the stove the biggest pot bubbles with chicken bone broth, filling the kitchen with a new scent.
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