In recent weeks we’ve had unnerving encounters with black mambas, spitting cobras and puff adders.
Time and again I return to the wisdom of John O’Donohue, an Irish poet/philosopher I first discovered when buried deep in fear and confusion amidst the gradual crumbling of my exiled life in the United States.
Chris and I are shortly off to Amalfi in Italy.
It’s that time of year. August. Late winter on our edge of the Zambezi escarpment. When the earth heats up; when the seeds go wild. My garden is coming into its annual climax and my heart is happy.
Before I set about making my first-ever pho, I learned that the depth of flavour, its intense colour and clarity, is all in the making of the broth.
The language of food echoes through the generations in rural Zambia.
