Bloody summer ate my hanging baskets . . .

It has to be said that so far this year, summer is, and continues to be, totally unreliable.

We spent most of June in a miserable gris anglais au château Thames Embankment, as dear old Rumpole might conceivably have put it.

Then the minute I nip off to Canet chez Claire, the sand is so hot that it burns my feet, and I come home of a Sunday evening to discover that the unforeseen heatwave has fried the hanging baskets.

There is no avoiding the fact that this pisses me off more than somewhat. The entire pocket paradise which is mon petit jardin chez Boulevard de La Pinouse, only consists of three jardinières and two hanging baskets.

Or to be strictly accurate, said baskets plus as many pots of assorted 'erbs as I can perch on the mini decking outside the front door, without precipitating mass destruction of earthenware.

The crap temps (putain de merde!!!?@**!! and other naughty mots français) has seriously distressed the 'erbs as well. Normally je me régale, I thoroughly revel even, in a fresh and vigorous supply of the wonderful herbes du sud.

That is to say, all that lovely, sunny, fresh stuff, alien to beleaguered Ongleterry unless you're a gardening genius: Basil, tarragon, marjoram, oregano . . . and . . . and . . . etc. You get the point.

This year, the 'erbs have merely sulked, while perversely you can't move for marauding armies of weeds, steadily strangling the surrounding countryside.

To date, I have just about managed to accomplish this year's modest goal of making a fresh version of that classic French combination, fines herbes. To prove my point, we see chervil, chives, parsley and tarragon, photogenically disposed about ye venerable chopping board.

I lobbed them into a chicken dish, and am still somewhat undecided about the outcome. The distinctive tang of tarragon seemed to kick the others into touch. I don't yet know quite what to make of chervil, which I've never had the opportunity to use before. It seems to taste rather like a feeble version of tarragon, whilst having certain coriandrical visual tendencies.

In fact the whole mix seemed merely to be a way to bulk out tarragon when you haven't got enough of it. Which was apt enough, given that only tonight (le 4 juillet, Mon bleeding Dieu . . .) did I finally have enough of the real thing to make my much belovéd chicken and mushroom à l'estragon.

I think I may have sketched out this recipe before, but quickly to recap:

If you fry up onions, garlic and chunks of chicken thigh in olive oil in an iron casserole . . .

Add tarragon, paprika, black pepper, veg stock cube, a dash of nutmeg and salt . . .

Chopped mushrooms, some water, and a generous slosh of white wine . . .

Bring to boil, cover then leave it to play with itself on a low heat for a couple of hours . . .

Uncover and simmer until sauce reduces to an agreeable thickness . . .

It tastes divine served with new potatoes, which you can dunk in the tarragon sauce during the final moments of culinary orgasm.

I often think that nutmeg, or muscade as they call it hereabouts, is a greatly underrated spice. You can bounce all sorts of other flavours off it. Not only against tarragon but against basil, with paprika and maybe a touch of chili for a classy ratatouille.

Or to broaden the flavour of a chili con carne, when mixed with paprika, especially when you're stuck for fresh chilis and have to make do with dried. Or against fresh thyme and marjoram in a good beef stew.

Talking of marjoram, it seems to be the one 'erb which has held its own this year; it's even given the weeds a run for their money.