Autumn and her bounty is knocking at the window asking to come in. Would you just look at those colours? Barely kissed by Photoshop. It's the Nikkor 50mm opened wide up at f1.4 They say that lens has a sweet spot somewhere around the f4 mark but I think the sweet spot lies somewhere between those beetroot veins and the oblong radishes from my Fathers garden. Committee has decided carrots need a little more effort. There's talk of a deep sandy pit for next season. (They'll like that apparently) Leads me to ponder if fishermens front gardens are as famed for their carrots as their broken lobster pots.
I'd hidden the knife away for over a decade. All our lives it had featured heavily during the Saturday Production of Granda's Ulster Fry. He made his own soda bread and potatoe bread and wore an apron which used to make us giggle. Afterwards I'd sit as close to the fire as I could without smarting. We'd play cards Jack Change It and alternate the channels between black and white movies and the racing. Arsenic and Old Lace versus Aintree. I had a good grasp of form and always advised him sagely on where to stick the shilling each way. I was allowed to play with the button tin and the boys werent allowed to wear his hat.
Thats Granda's Good Knife. Said my brothers, surprised to see the familiar old bone handle on my chopping board. And the place could be coming down with Sabiers and Sabatiers but none would be sharper than same. I think the curve of the blade is from all that sharpening. I desperately didn't want to let it go, but I gave it back to my Mother recently as a present.
Look. Daddies good knife. She said to her brother visiting. Our Kieran chuckled, a dry man at the best of times. 'D'you know where that knife came from?' It was dropped by a couple of chancers Granda chased over the back wall and down the entry.
Here! I wonder if he checked if there'd been any murders in the vicinity before he wiped it on his apron and started prodding sausages. I don't think it's real bone anyway.