The omen's aren't good for a barbecue summer We all know by now, notwithstanding the abating of the gale-force winds and the occasional bright spell, that it's not going to be a "barbecue summer." Given the Met Office's record in predicting anything that might accurately reflect what the weather may bring over longer than the next five minutes, it may mean that we're in for a scorcher. But the omens are not good. Looks as if the honeybees are going to have an even harder time than last year, but we'll once more be up to our armpits in gooseberries, strawberries and a wide variety of native soft fruits. No complaints, as long as you spare me tart little redcurrants that set my nerve endings on edge, and "summer puddings." A sweet is supposed to be sweet, for goodness" sake, not something that stuns the taste buds into submission, causes the mouth to pucker unattractively and small seeds to lodge between the teeth. After such puddings, my dear father would always repair to the bathroom, to give his dentures a good sluice. How many times last summer did the plaintive cry go up "We haven't sat outside in the garden once this year," as the rains of climate change beat relentlessly down? Surely it can't be too much to hope that this year, the sun will at least peek furtively from behind the clouds and give the male of the species his hour of glory, amid the charcoal and the smoke, to produce the traditional sausage, burnt to a crisp on the outside, and raw on the inside, the similarly charred chicken, so dangerously pink behind the skin, the hamburger cooked to the consistency of a paving stone. Ah, the joy of eating in the open air; everything tastes so much better. It's why on holiday abroad in sunnier climes, even that boring Greek salad and those tough stuffed vine leaves seem delightful, as we quaff the local wine with its elusive hint of tarmacadam. When we bring it home and pour a glass of reminiscence on a dull autumn day, it doesn't seem to have travelled all that well, any more than the ouzo, or the Pernod and lovely little sparkling rosé we discovered in the hills behind Villefranche. And only a fool tries to recapture those lazy, hazy days with a Bacardi and Coke in the summer rains of home. Good friends of ours, visiting France, became entranced with the daily fresh baguette and croissant, with a simple breakfast of local ham and figs. On return to their rural Irish home, they thought to repeat the pleasure. On their first morning at home, the husband came back from an early visit to their local shop, carrying with him a couple of tomatoes, a packet of cooked ham, and a sliced pan loaf. "It was as close as I could get," he apologised. On my friend's request for the more exotic provender of his holidays, the shopkeeper had smiled, and said, "Sure, if we had food like that, we'd be eating it ourselves."