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the little hidden garden of love

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Yesterday we stepped out of the car and walked down the crunchy sparkly white-pebbled side of a dark gray house and suddenly thought we were in Italy. Or at least south of France or somewhere exotic like Mosman!




A magical hidden courtyard set with a red and white checked table cloth on a little yummy table. Trees casting shadows on the ground. Flowers tumbling their unruly heads over one another. The smell of herbs and lamb and bread and the most delicious homemade hommus you’ve ever eaten. A glass of wine, deep ruby red, especially divine under the setting sun. Lamb, tossed in olive oil and rosemary, some in lemon grass. My senses, all being assaulted at once. Crusty bread, my carb intake for the year, consumed in one fell swoop but so satisfying. Tabouli. Usually bitter and yuck at food courts in a kebab. But delicious tonight. Homemade. Fresh. Lemony. Full of love. You could taste it.




And the little lemon chocolate cups. And the berries. Tart. Sweet. Reflecting in the candle light. And the laughter. The stories. The banter. The selfies! The accents. Four distinctly different sounds…. My beautiful little Italian. My funny FUNNY Lebanese. My husband. The only man at the party last night. His warm deep laugh setting the kookaburras off too. And me. Indian as all hell! Content to just be in the moment. Content to be alive. Happy to have finally found a home away from home. To have made peace with life in Sydney. To feel doubly blessed that I really do now have two homes. India home and Australia home.



And so we raised our glasses to friendship and to love.




And to friends. Who are like the stars. Dee x




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