The first lavender

Today I cut the first lavender — my hands smelled of the south until evening. I cut in the morning, while the dew still holds on the stems: the oil is thickest and darkest then.

Batch No. 15 is maturing more slowly than I thought: the heat is such that the emulsion turns capricious. So the letter about the pouring will come a couple of days later — and that is fine. Cream does not tolerate haste, and I do not tolerate promises I cannot keep.

What else: the calendula has finally bloomed in the garden, chamomile is drying in the attic, and the sourdough bread has cooled on the windowsill. Everything is woven together — skin and food, forest and home.