it must be spring

 Oh the day was absolutely dreamy!  Late morning as I was opening the east-facing windows, I realized the bird singing far in the distance was a mockingbird; they never sing in March. But they don't know months; they only know air temperatures. And possibly they also get Spring Fever. 

Speaking of spring fever, I was able to set up my little greenhouse.

I can put in the shelves another day, and the plastic cover when it cools off. An if we have a snowstorm - I'll take my chances.

There was a recipe in the March British Country Living for an Irish soda bread with some cheddar in it which caught my eye. I grated some whiskey-laced cheese from Trader Joe's that I bought just for this purpose, the St. Patrick's Day dinner on Sunday.

It also called for bacon, but the corned beef will be quite salty enough, so I decided on some raisins. A good decision!

How yummy it is. But when I make it again I'll have to figure out a better baking temperature. It was quite high, but the outside was getting burnt while the inside was still gummy; I turned it down a couple of times and had to guess. But it worked and now it's in the freezer. I'll cook the corned beef on Saturday, and cook the vegetables in the liquid on Sunday, as I won't have time to do the whole thing then. 

I have a better photo of my rayon skirt fabric -

I'm just going to cut two rectangles, but I have to figure out how much fullness I want in the gathered waist.

Another poem by Christina Rossetti:

SISTER MAUDE

Who told my mother of my shame,
Who told my father of my dear?
Oh who but Maude, my sister Maude,
Who lurked to spy and peer.

Cold he lies, as cold as stone,
With his clotted curls about his face:
The comeliest corpse in all the world
And worthy of a queen's embrace.

You might have spared his soul, sister,
Have spared my soul, your own soul too:
Though I had not been born at all,
He'd never have looked at you.*

My father may sleep in Paradise,
My mother at Heaven-gate:
But sister Maude shall get no sleep
Either early or late.

My father may wear a golden gown,
My mother a crown may win;
If my dear and I knocked at Heaven-gate
Perhaps they'd let us in:
But sister Maude, oh sister Maude,
Bide you with death and sin.

*I did get a charge out of that.