All right, it’s official. I’ve got spring fever. I’ve now seen every sign that foretells spring’s arrival: bumble bees, crocuses, daffodils, a few over-eager cherry blossoms and stacks of matzo boxes in grocery stores.
I’ve also got what I call TGFs, or Twitchy Garden Fingers. They don’t want to be typing on a keyboard. They want to be digging in the garden. I want dirt under my nails, maybe a few splinters or ant bites and scratches from thorny roses. As I’m trying to drift off to sleep at night — annoyingly, something that takes me about five times longer than it does my husband — I’m thinking about garden improvement projects more than I’m ruminating on world events (for a change).
Inside my house, I’m paying attention to projects that just seemed too tedious to tackle during the winter. I’m not really a spring cleaner. (Nothing is ever swept under the rug in our house because I don’t sweep under rugs. And please just ignore those smeary cat-nose marks on our back door, just like I’m ignoring the spider eggs attached to the outside of our kitchen window. Let sleeping spiders lie, I always say. Please, please let them lie.) However, I am definitely a spring rearranger. Knickknacks travel from here to there and I might hang up a few small pieces of art, over the objections of my husband, who believes, perhaps not erroneously, that we already have too much art on the walls. He doesn’t say anything, of course. He just vibrates at a frequency that expresses subtle but emphatic displeasure.
The final, irrefutable proof of spring’s nearness is that Monday is St. Patrick’s Day. A reader quite reasonably suggested that I make a recipe in honor of the holiday and so I shall — or rather, I will sort of. Sticky toffee pudding isn’t a traditional Irish dessert, but it does come from the British Isles, and I have it on good authority (aka the internet) that Irish people do eat it. It’s not pudding in the American sense but in the English sense of anything served as a dessert. It’s also one of my husband’s favorite sweet treats. I suppose it behooves me to make it for him after cluttering up his walls and shelves for so many years.