I did it, I did it, I did it!!!! With a belly full of Tana Ramsey's Sausage & Lentil Bake, key lime pie and white wine, I convinced Angry Husband and reluctant brother to grab a fork and follow me down there to "make a start". When I say 'convinced', I mean offered beer. Big shout out too to my sister in law and nephew for watching my two year old son while we dug - I'm especially impressed that they suffered 40 minutes in the car with him and a full nappy. My son's bowels would test the patience of a saint. Respect Donna and Alex.
So we ruined two pairs of crap gardening gloves, got stung, scratched and filthy and made lots of very satisfying piles by tackling the biggest weeds. I hadn't realised how satisfying it would be pulling massive weeds out and feeling them give as you yank out the root. I found myself coaxing and then insulting each one in a pyschological game I think only I enjoyed. Angry Husband and Reluctant Brother just kept asking how many weeds earnt them a beer. And I met my allotment neighbour Brian. Very nice bloke. We exchanged musings on the benefits of hiring a rotivator. He said something about a weed sounding like bel..something and I agreed wholeheartedly that 'well, that's always the problem isn't it'. I'm hiring a rotivator. My back hurts.
Having made many satisfying piles (rather childishly, I find that sentence funny), I made good my promise to buy everyone a drink. And the pub round the corner from my allotment is lovely - result! And serves very nice Shiraz.
Lessons learnt. 1. Don't buy BOGOF gloves 2. Don't wear Uggs 3. Always follow allotment visit with lovely drink in the Chequers 4. Must hire rotivator to avoid wheelchair in later life
Sunday, 21 November 2010
Thursday, 18 November 2010
The Beginning
Around the same time I discovered the joys of cooking, I found myself wanting to grow my own fruit, veg and herbs. Those pictures of dirt covered carrots and handtied rosemary sprigs on Jamie Oliver's worktop always look so aspirational. Like anything made with shop bought produce wouldn't ever be quite the same. And when you are such a foodie you can't make a sandwich without using about 17 ingredients, that niggles. So I started with herbs. When I say 'grow' I bought living pots from Morrisons (79p-why bother with seeds) and proudly displayed them on my kitchen windowsill with twee heart-shaped markers. Then came the obsession. It feels good to grab a handful of basil, rosemary or parsley to sprinkle into a stew. It feels great to stand before your several crates of herbs and choose between hissop, lemon verbana, chocolate peppermint, lemongrass, marjoram, garlic chives or purple sage. See. It starts with basil and ends with smugness.
So it started with the Smug Herb Collection. Then came the idea that I could grow anything in my garden. Yeah it's tiny, almost entirely in the shade of a really annoying big tree and has no beds but that's fine - people grow strawberries and peppers in hanging baskets all the time, don't they. About £400 worth of pots, a couple of shonky plastic greenhouses and an angry husband later (a. we can't afford all these pots/shonky greenhouses and b. there's no room for said pots/shonky greenhouses), I had my empire. I also bought a total of nine 'shabby chic' signs (everything to 'Gardeners Know All The Dirt' to 'Le Jardin'), countless slate and chalkboard markers, three chickens and a rustic henhouse. The chickens - Martha, Dotty and Mabel to give them their correct names - are still a sore subject.
Tomatoes, strawberries, peppers, lemons, dwarf peaches, figs, melons, courgettes, aubergines, cucumbers, chillies....none of which grew. Again, I didn't bother with the seed part, preferring to be lazy and spend hundreds of pounds on small plants instead. Small plants that laughed in my face every time I begged them to bear fruit. Tell a lie. I got three tomatoes, four strawberries, seven peaches, four courgettes, two peppers and a lemon. The fig tree still looks like a Tim Burton character - a mass of spindly twigs - and the chillies are still the size of childrens' fingernails. And the melon plant died within a few days, despite the £14.99 pricetag.
So I joined the waiting list for an allotment. Having visited every farm and pick-your-own within a 20 mile radius, I realised I would not rest until I could collect my own leeks and strawberries in a rustic basket before nipping home to rustle up a Gizzi Erskine quiche. When I got the call months later to say I'd reached the front of the queue, I was running a press launch for a popular soap opera's DVD spin-off (I'm in PR, hence the tendancy towards the shallow). A crisis over the interview schedule was brewing but I was busy doing a tap dance and planning the quirky little signs I would stick in my allotment.
Then I saw it. It needs weeding. And rotavating. And compost. And stuff that a local gardener has quoted me £175 for as it will apparently take two men a whole day. Even my father in law, a man who grows everything in the Sunday roast that's not meat or stuffing, shook his head. I can do this can't I????? Why does choosing a PH Test almost reduce me to tears as I contemplate the overwhelming task ahead. Why are there so many PH Tests? Why are there so many types of soil? What is loam? I must keep the basket/quiche image in mind....
So it started with the Smug Herb Collection. Then came the idea that I could grow anything in my garden. Yeah it's tiny, almost entirely in the shade of a really annoying big tree and has no beds but that's fine - people grow strawberries and peppers in hanging baskets all the time, don't they. About £400 worth of pots, a couple of shonky plastic greenhouses and an angry husband later (a. we can't afford all these pots/shonky greenhouses and b. there's no room for said pots/shonky greenhouses), I had my empire. I also bought a total of nine 'shabby chic' signs (everything to 'Gardeners Know All The Dirt' to 'Le Jardin'), countless slate and chalkboard markers, three chickens and a rustic henhouse. The chickens - Martha, Dotty and Mabel to give them their correct names - are still a sore subject.
Tomatoes, strawberries, peppers, lemons, dwarf peaches, figs, melons, courgettes, aubergines, cucumbers, chillies....none of which grew. Again, I didn't bother with the seed part, preferring to be lazy and spend hundreds of pounds on small plants instead. Small plants that laughed in my face every time I begged them to bear fruit. Tell a lie. I got three tomatoes, four strawberries, seven peaches, four courgettes, two peppers and a lemon. The fig tree still looks like a Tim Burton character - a mass of spindly twigs - and the chillies are still the size of childrens' fingernails. And the melon plant died within a few days, despite the £14.99 pricetag.
So I joined the waiting list for an allotment. Having visited every farm and pick-your-own within a 20 mile radius, I realised I would not rest until I could collect my own leeks and strawberries in a rustic basket before nipping home to rustle up a Gizzi Erskine quiche. When I got the call months later to say I'd reached the front of the queue, I was running a press launch for a popular soap opera's DVD spin-off (I'm in PR, hence the tendancy towards the shallow). A crisis over the interview schedule was brewing but I was busy doing a tap dance and planning the quirky little signs I would stick in my allotment.
Then I saw it. It needs weeding. And rotavating. And compost. And stuff that a local gardener has quoted me £175 for as it will apparently take two men a whole day. Even my father in law, a man who grows everything in the Sunday roast that's not meat or stuffing, shook his head. I can do this can't I????? Why does choosing a PH Test almost reduce me to tears as I contemplate the overwhelming task ahead. Why are there so many PH Tests? Why are there so many types of soil? What is loam? I must keep the basket/quiche image in mind....
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