I dug out a white English ironstone pitcher. The kind that would have had a white washbowl with it and graced every American dresser in the 1800s.
I rooted around in a junk drawer in the kitchen that contains untold treasure I am sure. But all I was looking for was my garden pruners. I once again put on down coat hat scarf and gloves and slogged into the back yard to the forsythia bush. I think I felt ice pellets on my face while I cut a dozen-ish stalks with the very itsy bitsy nobs that might have been buds--but who could tell because THERE WERE ICE PELLETS HITTING MY EYEBALLS.
Fast Forward one week.
Eureka!
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