The absence of recent posts has been due to the fact that my pride and joy of a perfect food-photographing camera decided to self-destruct. Apparently I am more inspired to write about food when the picture is there to remind me of it. I am mourning its loss but there are still lots of things to write about. Since I wrote about Peru, it became autumn in Edinburgh - and what a way it was to be welcomed into the season to find a bag of rosy apples hanging on the doorknob. We have recently moved into the flat so don't yet know the other tenants in the building, so this mysterious gift caused a whole lot of speculation.
R suggested they might be poisoned, but I reminded her we weren't in a fairy tale and the most likely candidate for apple-donation were a mid-50s couple, wife often seen in her dressing gown and husband playing golf nearby. I promptly took a bite. I'd be lying if I said they were the most delicious apples ever (although it really would have made the story), but I'm wondering if we can propose a regular trade-off between any other glut they want to get rid of and compost which we have no garden to feed with. Or have I just stepped from fairy tale into an episode of the Good Life.
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