The gluts have left the building (shed)
This is where I used to write about the gluts I get from my veg patch and the ensuing gluttony in the kitchen.
Now I write a weekly mostly-veggie recipe over on Substack, plus share tales from the veg patch and exclusive videos. You can subscribe for free by clicking on the link below and every recipe will be sent straight to your inbox. If you’d like more content (such as those videos I mentioned, interviews and printer-friendly PDFs of every recipe to collect) do consider becoming a paid subscriber. More on that here.
In the meantime, here’s an archive of my old Gluts and Gluttony blog:
In Praise of Simplicity
I caught 30 seconds of the TV talent show Great British Menu the other day. A chef from a fancy restaurant was describing the preparation of his dish. He talked of dehydrating this, sous-vide-ing that, ballotining and steaming some long-suffering piece of meat, then braising it overnight before glazing and roasting to serve. (I exaggerate for effect, but not much and the general tenor is accurate.) The plate was a throng of reductions, foams, tuilles, dots of jellies, smears of this and shards of that. Whilst it surely would have tasted terrific, I couldn’t help thinking that there was more ego on the plate than food.
Portrait of a Cauliflower
I can’t grow cauliflowers. Believe me, I’ve tried. I tried germinating them from seed first, which turned out to be a fool’s errand, so troublesome are they to rear when young. I’ve tried buying plug plants – surely an easy option. But they sulked in their newly fed soil, like grumpy teenagers and stubbornly refused to grow so much as a millimetre. In the end they succumbed, I think willingly, to slugs and died.
A Love Letter to Brassicas
Christmas is brassica season, harvest time for the cabbage growers. The time of year to marvel at the kale which just keeps growing in all weathers; to gaze in wonder at the red cabbage, gigantic purple bowling balls that were nothing more than a palm-full of seeds a few months ago; to revel in the spectacle of the sprout trunks, strong, regal and towering above everything else in the winter patch.
On Messiness
Paradise is a well organised tuppaware draw. A deep, pull out draw, not a cupboard, so one can look down on the neat regimental lines and inspect the troops rather than scrabble around to find the one you want, which is in invariably skulking at the back of the cupboard. Lids in size order, left to right, lined up on their sides for easy access. Bases stacked one inside the other like Russian dolls. No bottomless lids, no lidless bottoms, no cracked corners, missing seals or tomato stain lines. Order. Because in order there is peace. Except…
On Weeds
It looks rather idyllic, doesn’t it? Here I am, pottering about in the veg patch. The sun is shining. The robins chirrup and come to watch me rake the earth. Bunnies hop about in the field nibbling the grass. Over the stone wall, I can hear the plaintive bleating of newly born lambs. Spring is in full bloom. If there was a Disney cartoon about a rural idyll, I’d be in it (singing). But this halcyon vision belies the true nature of an allotment in Springtime. It may look heavenly (and, ultimately, of course, it is) but beneath this Constable painting lurks torment and peril for the Spring gardener.
The Secret Pleasures of a Clandestine Wild Garlic Glut
The woodland is misty with morning dew. Badger trails crisscross the carpet of bluebells as it stretches away into the depths of the wood – gnarled, ancient, held upright by moss. A spaniel, my spaniel, clatters about in the undergrowth bothering a blackbird who was just looking for breakfast. But best of all, the air is thick with the smell of garlic. This is my Eden. And I imagine I’m not alone.