Time for Thyme

Benjamin Franklin said: "Dost thou love life? Then do not squander thyme, for that is the stuff life is made of."

Ok, so I'm not sure he really meant the delicious but irritatingly hard to grow herb, but I think the saying works either way.

I have trouble with thyme/time, but today was the day to focus on the former. Mr B, who is in charge of 'fancy savoury cooking' in the house is slightly depressed by our inability to grow thyme (in Scotland or France) so every spring goes and buys enough new plants to see us through the year. (I'm not sure four will do the trick, since we ate quarter of one tonight. Since you ask, it was for lemon sole, poached in thyme-y stock and then served with a creamy thyme sauce. Delicious, and worked so much better than I expected.)

Today was a much calmer day than yesterday, thanks largely to Mr B taking care of the morning shift. I think he has learned over the years to judge my mood and needs quite accurately by my chocolate intake, and I think yesterday's chocolate frenzy made him realise that I would be up all night worrying about all the things and therefore need a bit of a lie in. Thanks love.

Anyway, if anyone has the secret of successful thyme management, I'd love to know. Mr B has suggested a winged chariot, which gives me the perfect opportunity to link to a favourite poem of ours. The first he tried to recite to me from memory, half a lifetime ago. Here. A bad night's sleep always makes me a bit sentimental.