It was a good month, although an early spell of good weather rather lulled me into thinking that spring had sprung, only for April to go out like a lion.

Took myself off for a bicycle ride this morning before a forecast 24 hours of rain set in. Destination was the Parco della Caffarella, which before I had been to only with organised rides and somebody else doing the navigating. Getting to the park is straightforward, but I wish I had been paying more attention during those earlier rides (or maybe checked on the tracks for those days) because I did get myself a bit lost and that led to some hairy sections.

Helena Bottemiller Evich had a story in her newsletter last week that left me open mouthed. Whatever bad things you think Big Food might be capable of, this is worse.

A long time ago now, I determined to pickle my own cucumbers, not in vinegar but a proper salt pickle, and none of your effete new greens either. This was actually a while before the Great Fermentation Renaissance, and recipes were few and far between. I asked my sister, who was in Moscow at the time, if she could get something like a recipe from one of the women who still, then, sold pickles from a barrel. She did, but it was way too imprecise for me to use. In particular, how much salt? was met with enough and, after further pressure, enough to float an egg.

Our terrace is a constant source of joy, let me be upfront about that before I move to its failings, just one of which is that the space is so finite. In an actual garden, there’s always room to cram in one more plant. On a terrace, not so much, which inevitably creates trouble when there are excess plants which, at this time of the year, is the result of potting on and thinning out. Some we leave by the garbage and usually they are gone in a matter of hours, which is nice. Others we give away. Yet others, we cram in. None of which detracts one bit from the even greater joy of seeds.