Everythings full



Tis the season of the post-Christmas bloat; Everythings full. I'm full. The fridge is full (shavings of roast goost jostle for space with half-moons of smelly cheeses that keep belching out their fumes every time you reach in for a pint of milk). I actually have a loot bag this year (from Amazon, in cookie-monster-blue, which previously only held a much anticipated pasta maker) and guess what? Thats full. Of cookbooks and funny flavoured liquors - step aside sloe gin, I've got elderflower and horseradish -

The garden is full of tufty uncut winter grass growth, mud and wet sticky leaves which unerringly plaster themselves to an already slippery pathway. My beds are for once, not empty. Coriander, cultivated rocket, marvel of four seasons lettuce and land cress are all eeking themselves along, popping up tentative tender leaves every week or so, which is pretty slow compared to their summer pace but getting home in the dark evenings means my foraging is more infrequent any way.

The cardoon grown from seed last summer that won't take the hint and keeps re-sprouting.
While they're not much, these little leaves pack a punch of slow growth flavour and make perfect little jewel-hued salads alongside what ever I'm making from my horde on new cookbooks.

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