We're in that in between time, between the winter roots and stews and the summer leaves and berries. My vegetable box has looked a little forlorn, recovering slowly from the first weeks of stay at home when my fruit bag contained odd lemons and an avocado to make up the "seven pieces of munchable fruit", and one week there were seven apples. Bananas were missing for a while, kiwis still are.
The Botanic Garden, beautiful at this time of year, is closed as "staff shortages have compromised the safety of the site". I wander around the perimeter everyday, hanging on the fence, hungrily taking in the changes, looking for where I could, safely and unobtrusively, break-in.
I have worked out that I would need to have two lightweight step ladders to get me over the fence, one to get up and one on the other side to get down, and found a secluded junction where the iron railings meets a brick wall at right angles and I could hang on for dear life. There are over hanging branches on one side to shield me from view, and scrub on the other side where I could hide my ladders while I break out in the freedom of the gardens. In spite of the "unauthorised vehicles will be clamped" I think I could park here, hidden away from the buildings and the roads: useful while I unload my step-ladders.
There is another point, around the back of the building, where the railings are at right angles to each other (you'll notice the bars have blunt ends, otherwise I might be deterred). Overlooked only by a single ground-floor window that lets onto a set of stairs, wooden and bare of carpet. It isn't clear whether anyone is living there: I check each day to see whether the bottle of washing up liquid and the iron in the window have been moved.
Frustratingly, temptingly, there is a gate, but I do not have the key. I have my cover story ready, if anyone stops me (they never do in this twilight world): I'm scouting for film locations, yes, that's right, probably for Bulletproof Season Three. Or maybe another Julian Fellowes Sunday night period drama, set in the 1930s when these house were built. Or maybe for my own Overheard on a Salt Marsh - there's certainly the glades and undergrowth for it.
Empty of winter cabbages and broccoli and kale, my box has instead the in between wonders: asparagus, pink rhubarb. The asparagus is gone the day it arrives: a short season, it must be savoured as fresh as possible. I steam it quickly, sprinkle sea salt flakes, dip the tips in butter. There's no time to photograph these tender delicacies, I'm far too busy with their deliciousness.
Down by the coast where my family is, there's a farm that sells only asparagus at this time of year, all graded. The premium spears have been picked that morning, firm, even-sized, fresh green. Next to them are yesterday's spears, and then the day before. At the end, there are mixed boxes of skinny and fat and mangled spears - still graded by the day they were picked and perfectly good if you are poor or making soup. We would drive down everyday (previously, my mum would have gone on her bicycle) and eat them with fresh dabs, caught in the last tide, left on the draining board by my fisherman cousin.
I put the rhubarb to roast gently in a slow oven, nestled with star anise and cinnamon sticks, bathed with orange juice and honey, the empty orange skins set on top. Later, when it is tender, I spoon it on top of yoghurt in a glass sundae dish and eat it with a tiny spoon, a gift from my grandmother, sitting on the back step looking at the trees. I watch the trees and think about breaking into the Garden.