Rus in urbe

This post is number 48 in a series.

The country came to town yesterday as we set out, bucket in hand, dog on leash, to gather elderflowers. Italians watched, but said nothing. With The Squeeze despatched to procure citric acid, and sugar, water and lemons, the house was soon as redolent as a flowery bower. It’s odd. Elder wood smells like cat piss, and the flowers (or possibly just the peduncles) have a whiff of the unpleasant about them too. But the steeped flowers! There’s something indescribably floral (I said it was indescribable), fresh with a tang, that speaks of hot summer days and refreshing drinks. Tonight we bottle.