Ode to the Russian

I cannot take credit for the horn of plenty we harvested from our garden yesterday. Let me start with the blueberries, which hubby planted years ago in response to my deep craving for the American mid-west. We special ordered the native bushes and then watched them dry up after two years. Not to be thwarted, he researched blueberries, dug them out, lined the trench with special cloth and then replanted them in pure peat. Now they thrive. A miracle? He waters them regularly and weeds them out. He picks them, cuts them back, nurtures them; and I ... well, I eat them! (yes, I hear how this sounds).

In fact... it is my Russian who tends to all the fruit in our Garden of Eden; blackberries, blueberries, raspberries, gooseberries, strawberries, elderberries, red current, black current, grapes, abricots, apples, plums, the list goes on...

The apples, you ask? Also my beloved. He planted the tiny trees years back and cares tenderly for them, watching them daily to pluck the first ripe one and then generously share it with me or the kids who, shamefully, never lift a finger to tend them.

Last night he said he was going out to pick beans (he planted the upright variety for easier picking - I think in an attempt to lure me into the process). I had nothing else to do. "I could pick with you if you want." A sweet but unmistakable smirk... "That would be fun!"

So if you had looked toward northern Switzerland just before sunset, you would have seen me out there picking these beans (which hubby blanched for the freezer...bless his heart). You would also have seen me picking the blueberries - just opposite my faithful other half, who sits efficiently on a chair while I huff and puff in my amateur squatting position. But I had to think as I spied him through the thick leaves... this is the love of my life...could it get any better?