But, then again . . . . .

By TrikinDave

Little Boxes.

The marmalade progresses, with the larger chunks of fruit being hoiked out of the cauldron and being put through the pulveriser of the food processor. I normally add the sugar by taste; as I used to make a variety of marmalades with different combinations of fruit, they have different levels of bitterness to be counteracted by the sweetness of the sugar. Now that has been done, the fruit has been preserved and I can wait until it is convenient, probably a couple of days, before reducing it until I have a “set.” You will understand that much of my cookery has been learnt by trial and error which accounts for some of my strange ways of working.
 
The afternoon was spent at a bee keeping AGM; our best laid plans were usurped by complicated constitutional problems. The result is that we set up a sub-committee to put forward amendments to the constitution ready for an EGM next month so that we can restructure the committee to reflect our change in membership over the seven years we have been in existence. Why is nothing ever simple?
 
It was close to dusk, a couple of miles from home, after I’d left the meeting that I noticed these new show houses; they brought to mind the song written by Malvina Reynolds in 1962.
To me, they look absolutely ghastly, though I notice that two pigeons have already taken up residence.

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