Give me a boat that will carry two, And both shall row, my love and I. The water is wide. As I perch in the bow of the our little outboard motor boat—a “tinny” in the unsentimental dialect of Australians—it looks deep and cool. Rising up on each side, the red earth of the hills seems primeval. The slopes are thickly forested with eucalypts, their leaves flickering between shades of darker and lighter grey-green in the breeze. The single layer of trees that we can see atop the ridge looks tufty, like a collection of upright broccoli stalks. I’m reminded of an old recipe book I once worked my way through when I shared a basement kitchen in Cambridge with vegetarian flatmates: Molly Katzen’s
Hawkesbury River Loving
Hawkesbury River Loving
Hawkesbury River Loving
Give me a boat that will carry two, And both shall row, my love and I. The water is wide. As I perch in the bow of the our little outboard motor boat—a “tinny” in the unsentimental dialect of Australians—it looks deep and cool. Rising up on each side, the red earth of the hills seems primeval. The slopes are thickly forested with eucalypts, their leaves flickering between shades of darker and lighter grey-green in the breeze. The single layer of trees that we can see atop the ridge looks tufty, like a collection of upright broccoli stalks. I’m reminded of an old recipe book I once worked my way through when I shared a basement kitchen in Cambridge with vegetarian flatmates: Molly Katzen’s