News from the Auvergne: The three quince trees have had a good year. Luckily the parental vehicle is no longer a 2cv or it would have buckled (on any kind of gradient) under the bulbous weight, both of the quinces and my aligot hungry self. Aligot will, with an inevitability informed by my shameful habit, make an appearance on the Charles Lamb menu next week.
Such was the glut of runner beans (racily named 'Scarlett Runners') in the garden that some had escaped picking and grown over tough - these I podded and their seeds were fabulously pink and lilac, until I dropped them into some chicken stock with tarragon and chicory. Then I ate some magret, roasted with guerande salt over some little garden apples, goose fat pototoes, blettes galore, pale pink onions, a plantation of flat leaf parsley and some quinces baked for 4 hours in Calvados and honey. It is a hard life.
Back in London, I spent the day strategically balancing figs and oysters on naked men for a TV camera. I repeat: it is a hard life.