Snip, pinch, pluck.
Crunching, roasting, drying, jamming.
It seems incredible that I never did any of this in Italy, because is there a European country with better fresh produce than Italy?
A north-facing flat, 8 floors above a clattering road and permanently covered in smoggy soot did not lend itself to home growing. And why bother, anyway, when going down to the weekly market and arguing with the traders about how many lemons one small family could feasibly get through in a week (tantissimi, signora, sono stupendi) was such a rite of passage?
Not here; The Swedes have an enthusiasm for the foraged, the lovingly coaxed out of the ground in the short but intense growing seasons. We live in a garden-less flat now too, but its balcony is my solace. I promise you, there's little you can't grow in pots these days. Cucumbers, strawberries, all manner of salad leaves, herbs, green beans, chillies, and these dinky little round carrots not even the vegetable-averse Bean could resist.
Yes, I have hit middle-age as well as middle-class, I think, taking pictures of my haul. And what I can't grow myself but am able to pick by the crate-load from a local farm? Recruit the small person (who now mistakes cow parsley for elderflower!), jam it all and show it off to the world. There's nothing better than summer pickings, is there.