Each morning with our breakfast cereal, we are able to include preserved fruit. Today Robert, self appointed breakfast cook, said “Can you please fetch jar of fruit from the cupboard?”. Sure, no problem. When he opened them he declared they smelt funny and asked if they were ok to eat.
When I checked they turned out not to be preserved cherry plums as I’d thought, but rather confit cumquats. I should have known – they didn’t sit in the bottle like plums would have done. You can see from the photo that they look pretty ‘ordinary’.
That’s the beauty of doing your own preserving though, you come across all sorts of hidden treasures in the pantry shelves, especially if they are a bit disorganised like mine.
Anyway, I was so pleased – I thought we’d eaten them all. They are the perfect match to a bitey blue cheese, and so will be perfect to share on Saturday with the cheese making class here.
We’ve spent the whole morning, almost since the crack of dawn, weeding, hoping to avoid the heat. At 12 we came inside, very bedraggled and hot as we didn’t have any cloud cover at that stage. 30 degrees the thermometer said, and in the shade at that. No wonder we are so dishevelled and wilted. What a shame everything else doesn’t grow as well as the weeds do.
Meanwhile, a mini animal drama unfolded before us. Old Tom had been missing for a few hours – I feared it was to be another missing cat episode. He sauntered through the cat flap a while ago however, devoured three sachets of food and then went looking for a likely bed to sleep off his adventures.
I’d put Puppy Poppy’s toy basket up on the couch, out of the way so I could vacuum the floor. Tom has curled himself up inside it most comfortably.
Now Poppy is most particular about her toy basket, she loves it and goes back and forth to it all day long, choosing this toy and that to play with for while. If visiting grandchildren take a toy out, she whimpers to let them know she’d prefer they didn’t.
She jumped up on the couch, I expect with a view to asking Tom to move. She took one look at him, saw how entrenched he was, and gave up the cause. She retreated to my chair, looking quite depressed as you can see. Better that than a swipe with Tom’s hook claw I am sure she must have thought. You can see her coveted toys in, around and under Tom. Strange old cat he is.