If it were up to me, I'd do oats and rhubarb.
But within the confinements of this third-world twenty-twenty, I've adjusted to the sachets of tomato seeds purchased on a rainy day a year and six months ago.
I've made it a ritual to snuggle my socked feet into my horrendous chef shoes when watering the plants. I feel the look encourages my dogs to shamelessly rub their hairy selves against my ankles and lick the water droplets that sprinkle from the hose onto my calves.
I like to dream about not knowing what to do once these green babies turn Christmassy red. I like giving myself an excuse to leaf through cookbooks, revisiting old recipes, and rereading the ones on food I'm yet to try.
