Seriously, who is writing this recipe,a hawk?!
Honestly, by this point, I was glugging the wine from the bottle, while also tipping it into the pot. The moral of this story is that people need to bemore specificwith their cooking instructions. I ended up eating my burned, dry chicken cacciatore from the pot, with onions that were so crispy they snapped between my teeth, while messaging Ruby to update her on my hobby status. Cooking was not The One.
You know, before I was dumped in a broom cupboard the day before my wedding, I was a great believer in everything happening for a reason. Now I strongly believe that many bad things happen simply because people like Matthew act like arseholes and ruin things for everyone else.
Argh. I miss him.
However, in this case, thanks to my cooking attempts not working out, I ended up stumbling upon the perfect new hobby for me.
Gardening.
It’s going to become my thing. It has it all: calming vibes, feeling at one with nature, and satisfying results. We have a sort of small patio bit outside the flat, which is currently overrun with weeds and horribly neglected.
Matthew and I had planned on buying our own place together after the wedding. We wanted to get on the property ladder and we’d saved up, but we agreed that we’d focus on the wedding first and then we would start looking for somewhere to buy. It was exciting because, once we were engaged, chats about The Future seemed that much more real and within reach than before. Matthew must have felt that, too—only for him, that was a negative rather than a positive.
I love this flat, but because we rent it, it’s never felt completelyours to do what we want with, and I suppose that attitude extended out to the patio.
But I have a feeling I might be a bit of a natural when it comes to this sort of thing. I’m going to work hard to transform this outside space.
“You can’t buy a gardening fork and claim you’re a gardener,” Adrian says during a video call.
I prop my tablet up on the kitchen chair I’ve dragged outside so he can witness my first foray into this world of pleasant greenery and nature.
“I didn’t just buy a gardening fork,” I reply smugly, wiggling my hands into brand-new polka-dot gardening gloves. “I also bought these. And a cute little spade thing.”
“A trowel.”
“You’re just jealous because you don’t have a garden in New York.”
“That is partly true,” he admits with a grin. “But I’m not sure I’d call that there a garden. It’s more like some slabs of concrete paving with borders.”
“When I’m done with it, it will be a haven. I shall sit out here, listen to the visiting birds sing, and watch the world go by.”
“It’s surrounded by a wall. You’ll be watching bricks.”
“You know what I mean,” I huff, opening a garden-waste bag. “How is it across the pond anyway? All good with you?”
“Work is busy, doing some long hours,” he says, running a hand through his hair. “I’m missing home a bit.”
“You always miss it for a week or so, and then you’ll forget about dear old Blighty in the haze of New York’s glamorous lights.”
“I do love this city.”
“Me too.”
“You need to come visit me again soon, please. Hey, in your next parcel, can you send over some crumpets? And also chocolate buttons.”
“How old are you, five?” I snigger, kneeling on the ground and pulling out my first weed, getting all its roots up, which isextremelysatisfying.
I chuck it in the waste bag triumphantly. I am so into this gardening thing.
“When I called you two days ago, you were eating a Dip Dab,” Adrian points out.
“That’s true.” I nod, clutching another weed in my grasp. “I’d forgotten how good Dip Dabs are.”
“They are sensational.”
“I’ll make a note of crumpets and chocolate buttons,” I assure him.
