When I think of gratins (more often than you might imagine) I think of a dense pile of creamy, cheesey thinly sliced potatoes, bubbling and browned. A dish so rich that when you dig out a lush spoonful it is umbilically attached by a stretch of gooey cheese. Now that’s a gratin.
It was bound to happen. I spent two whole posts bragging about our fabulous weather – heady heights of 23.6C – only for the heavens to split with sleet, hail and snow, all horizontal. And because we are also being teased with flashes of brilliant sunshine I am getting dizzy running around letting the hens …
Sitting outside, third experimental glass of watermelon and green tea soothie to hand, I am enjoying the scents of my summer: crushed lovage, trampled thyme, eviscerated verbena, scrambled sage. Yes, you guessed it, my four ‘girls’ have been on a rampage. Pecking and scratching their collective way through our little suburban patch, they seem to …