Читать книгу The Kitchen Diaries - Nigel Slater - Страница 49

I try planting some late crocus bulbs in the garden, which I had forgotten about and which now appear to have started sprouting. There’s a freezing wind and my fingers are numb even through the fleece-lined luxury of leather gardening gloves. Another of those days when you feel you are going to get snow but all that appears is sleet, which has neither the romance of snow nor the refreshing quality of rain. The ice-cold needles prickle your skin, your cheeks start to lose all feeling. I battle on till I think my nose might be running, but my face is so cold I am not sure. I call it a day and make a big pot of chicken broth, as much out of defiance as anything else.