It’s lambing season, the stresses of which I only vaguely recall from my teenage reading of All Creatures Great and Small, a Yorkshire country vet’s account of his years stumbling around barns extracting stuck lambs from their mothers. The whole venture gives me a sense of wet wool steaming in the cold, and wobbly legs. (And since I was a midwife for a time, bright red afterbirth as well.)
So the garden is fallow, we have a break from garden class for a few more weeks, and T is home on her land with the lambs, receiving field trips of wide-eyed school children yearning for a glimpse of a fresh-made baby animal. There’s nothing like new life to start a new year off right. We’ll hope for rain, and let this year take a few more weeks to get its wobbly legs working right.
And I will refrain from providing even one recipe for rack of lamb.