There’s an air of happy expectancy settling in among our fruit trees. Or maybe it’s just an air of happy expectancy around Chris and me.
Because of a crushing farming schedule, our friend Bruce was unable to attend my recent 50th birthday party.
The wind feels almost indecisive at this time of year. It comes, it goes. Sometimes it roars in full of bluster, other times it creeps about in quiet whispers.
I was chatting to a friend in America a while ago, telling her about my average day on the farm here in Livingstone, when she suddenly piped up: “Annabel, you sound just like a Bush Martha!”
Combretum seeds
Yomar Monsalve, my Michelin-starred new kitchen bestie, and I were back-and-forthing the other day about a dinner I was planning for his farewell from Livingstone, when he announced he’d bring along a “
“Life is like an ice cream. Enjoy it before it melts.” – Whoever penned this quote clearly never lived in the Zambezi Valley. Forget the ice cream.
