����The forget-me-nots are in full bloom now.

����From a distance it looks like little tiny bits of sky blue confetti floating about eight inches above the ground. Since I go just mental about blue flowers, I am (as you can well imagine) all a-twitter.

����True blue is a very rare colour in flowers, eh. You see it in your forget-me-nots, some of your pulmonarias, delphinium, gentians, pansies, love-in-a-mist and that's about all I can think of right now.

����The people who grow irises will tell you they have blues, too, but (just between you and me) those people are delusional.

����I'm sorry, but irises come in variations of purple, there aren't any true blues. The best way to deal with an iris person on this issue is to pat the back of their hand soothingly, agree that you are looking at a blue flower, and then quickly say, "And what about those slugs, eh?" Distraction is the key here, and there are few things gardeners hate more than slugs.

����Hey, did I ever tell you that I've eaten slugs?

����I was fairly liquored up at the time, otherwise I would have drawn the line at consuming garden pests. It was one of those ooh lah lah French eateries so the menu said "escargots" which is French for snail and somehow that seemed niftier than "slimy black squishy critter."

����I've heard it said that "a rose by any other name would smell as sweet," but far as I can see, what you call something can make a big difference in the wonderful world of food.

����I mean, if someone came up to you and said, "Would you like some tiny, rock-like squares of dry (and probably stale) lightly seasoned bread?" I'm guessing you would say, "Ummm, no thanks." But hey, call them croutons, and you can't keep a salad bar stocked!

����Wacky, I tell you, just plain wacky.

����Can you tell that when I eat out plastic cutlery and the phrase "do you want fries with that" is usually involved?

����Okay, snails, I was talking about eating snails.

����Paul and I were out with our friends Ron and Sue and we all decided to order something different from this rather exotic five course menu and then share around portions of our meals so we could all get a taste of the goodies.

����Ron ordered escargots and they came in this tiny perfect hand woven pastry basket, very wonderful. Except there's not a lot you can do after the pastry basket to hide the fact that you are looking at a small mound of slimy black squishy critters, albeit gourmet slimy black squishy critters saut�ed in some sort of garlic/herb butter concoction.

����So Ron spoons three or four of his escargots on my plate and in return I give him some of my palm hearts. This does not strike me as fair. I know that I like palm hearts, and now my plate is littered with dead garden pests.

����But I am brave, slightly drunk, and I spear one of the slimy black squishy critters with my fork. As Paul watches with an expression of horror mixed with fascination, I pop it in my mouth and begin to chew.

����Can you tell that I will do things under the influence of alcohol I will not do sober?

����I was afraid I was going to be eating something that was firm on the outside and creamily good on the inside, but instead it was very rubbery and didn't taste of much of anything besides butter, garlic and herbs. Whew!

����But that doesn't mean I would ever eat them again, eh.

����At least not while I was sober, anyhow.