Everything is green. In the greenest possible way. There are shades of green down here in Tasmania that could make Ireland sit up and take notice -- and I'm not even taking into account the weird shit down the back of my fridge, where the kids put their leftovers.
In between all the green, there's the rainbow of flowers. The cherries. The apples and pears. The late bulbs -- daffodils, jonquils, irises, tulips, and a shitload I don't know. Then there's all the other stuff. Rhododendrons - I know them, sure. But what about those orange things? And that mass of white? And all those purple things? Does ANYBODY actually know what all those flowers are?
But the surest possible indication of Springtime is my relentless need to Cook With Charcoal.
I love charcoal. I have done so ever since I did a high-school trip to Indonesia, and ate my first goat satay from a street vendor somewhere in Jogjakarta. Oooooh, yes please. Charcoal is, so far as I'm concerned, the finest food technology ever created. A handful of chips from a hickory tree (or a sassafras, if you're down here in Taz) and you've got pure goddam foody bliss.
The absolute, final indication of springtime is this:
That would be the shiny new Weber barbecue thing my good wife purchased yesterday, in Launceston, after her weekly yoga outing. She knows when she's onto a good thing, that woman. Because, of course, this would be the first chunks of meat in the Weber...
Toss in a couple Small Blue Things*, and I'm set.
*Small Blue Thing: Shot of decent gin, shot of blue curacao, splash of lime juice, tonic water to taste -- over ice.
